1 800 SOS
by Copper Oxide
Summary: Kurt Hummel is standing on the precipice between life and death. His last attempt at life is a shakily-dialed call to a suicide hotline, where he finds the comfort in anonymity and confides his feelings to a stranger for possibly the last time. trigger warnings: self harm, suicide attempt
1. part 1

chapter 1

Kurt Hummel sits on the usually immaculately clean floor of his ensuite bathroom, clutching his phone in his right hand and an orange bottle of pills in the other. The cuffs of his sleeves, once a pristine cream color, are now blotched with ugly spots of dark red, seeping through the material from underneath the cuffs.

No one's at home, and he'd been crying for hours. After all, it was the middle of a school day. Kurt had come home early, parking his car recklessly in the driveway before running into the safety of his home.

Today, Kurt had finally snapped. Today, he had received a death threat.

A death threat given to him only after he endured the worst beating they'd ever given him. He had always kept his head high through the needless bullying and harassment, walking away as if it never affected him when he's been battered inside and out. It did, of course. Today was the first time they broke Kurt. His elbow feels dangerously numb and out of place, but the sobs that thoroughly racked his being meant that he couldn't fully focus on his senses. He couldn't feel his split lip, nor could he feel the bruise forming over his eyelid.

He didn't _want _to feel. It was more comfortable for him not to.

Feeling his injuries would mean defeat. It hurt even more to know that his rigid exterior did nothing to soften the blows: a façade of integrity, as it turned out, only angered them more. It was as if he wasn't worthy of pride. They'd intended to take him down a notch, and that they did.

Hell, at this point, Kurt Hummel was on the bottom rung of life, holding on reluctantly by the fingertips.

_It's never gotten this bad, _he thinks to himself. _It can only go downhill from here._

He'd almost dialed his dad thrice. Each time he'd try, he'd never made it to the call button. It was always a halfway attempt at dialing the only set of numbers he'd remembered by heart, but he'd talked himself out of it each time. He'd tried to talk to his dad last night, after feeling that the bullying was beginning to escalate and he was getting truly afraid. It ended in an enormous argument between them, ending with Kurt going to bed feeling infinitely worse and his dad, more stressed with work than ever, leaving him without trying to reconcile things in the slightest.

He tried so hard to cry it off, like he'd done countless times before. _Have a good cry,_ he'd told himself. _Get it out of your system._

It had become customary to do at this point. It was all he could do to brush it off and move on, right?

He couldn't remember exactly when he reached for the set of razors in his bathroom cabinet, nor could be remember how that bottle of pills found its way onto the floor next to him. His thoughts were fogged with fear and despair; he's not thinking straight. He's exhausted from crying, but he can't stop. He's an open faucet, and he knows there's no one there to close the tap. He's trying to figure out what he's doing, he really is, but he's moving on impulse and he's on autopilot. Before he knows it, he's bleeding- fresh wounds spill over onto the bathroom tiles that have never felt colder beneath his feet. Sharp, clean, long slits exert themselves as Kurt sees the droplets rise to the surface and slip down his pale, bony wrist.

Each drop seems to echo painfully loud in the closed space. The sound resonated in his ears with a painful twinge as Kurt can only watch as white tiles are corrupted with red, not fully comprehending how it even happened. He knows he's pouring, he's pouring his heart out onto the bathroom floor.. this was supposed to be relief, this was supposed to feel good.

It doesn't, it doesn't at all, it smarts and the sight of blood makes him nauseous paired with his influx of tears. It doesn't help, he's got to stop, he's got to stop.

That's when Kurt spots the little cylinder, sitting on its side where its prescription label has been worn and scratched off. The razor hits the ground with a clatter, forgotten as a failed means of comfort. Trembling hands reach out for the bottle, his wrists leaving a light smattering of crimson where he stretches out, palms open. Fumbling, he pulls back and finds himself shifting into the sitting position he's in now. One shaky hand on the bottle of round white pills, the other on his phone. He draws his arms in, making himself even smaller, pulling his knees up as he continues to sob miserably into himself.

He lessens his crying slightly to wipe at his face with his sleeve, feeling rivulets form down his arm when he raises his cuffed wrist to his tear-tracked cheek. They feel only a little more viscose than water, yet so, so heavy at the same time. His fingers turn the orange bottle around in his fingers- there were plenty of pills in there. Though the label is tattered, he can make out a few words that told him they were prescribed analgesics. Pain-killers.

Pills that can take away all the pain.

It seemed too easy. Far too easy- yet so, so appealing. He could solve all his problems right now, with the help of these little pellets resting in his left palm. If only for a little while. The fluorescent orange clashed with the pale white of his skin, and again with the deep red around his wrists. The garish colours of his sight that flooded his raw, sensitive eyes seemed to urge him on: your escape is so simple- so close, Kurt.

But it's not that simple, his internal voice bursts out. It's still going to hurt so bad once the effects of these pills wear off. They'll still want to hurt you so bad, Kurt, because even pills won't fix you. Pills won't fix the fact that you're a homosexual. They think you're sick, Kurt, and that you're a lost cause. No pity, no sympathy- just disgust. Your sexuality is going to hang over your head for the rest of your life, and these tablets will help you for the shortest time.

After each of these doses, you'll be alone.

You will always, always be alone.

And there's nothing that you, or a prescription, will ever be able to do about it.

Then Kurt has a pivotal thought. He glances down to the bottle again, realising how possible it was to solve everything. It's a terrifying thought, yes.. but he's found a way out. He could take them all- then they wouldn't be a temporary fix. They'd amend everything, they'd erase it all. It would be a _permanent change_.

For a minute, Kurt feels elated. He'd found his solution.

He then realises the implications of his thoughts. His cerulean irises falter as his eyes widen- had he really resorted to this, of all things?

Without realising it, Kurt's dialed another number on his phone. It's the number he'd seen through the glass walls of the guidance councilors' office when he passes by it on the long route to his locker.

Which he takes for safety's sake.

Even then, it's only effective about half the time- they're almost always there.

Before, it was only ever a couple punches and shoves; a couple words like daggers. He'd never let it show what their tormenting did to him on the inside. His smart-ass outer surface was a cover for a hopeless boy, broken by hate and on the verge of giving in.

He was so close to giving in, he really was. His previous thoughts were a confirmation of that. When he'd realised the pills were only a temporary escape, he'd already been on the edge. When he realised that the pills had the capability of being a permanent escape, well- one foot was hovering over empty space. He is about ready to shift his weight and take the plunge.

He's ready to end it all.

That number, though.

That number had ingrained itself into his mind subconsciously- he had given it a glance every now and then but never had he really considered a stranger to be of much solace; much less on the phone. He'd never thought he'd be in this position; he'd never thought he'd ever need to dial this number on his phone while he steadily loses blood and tears and hope on his bathroom floor.

His thumb is poised over the call button as he stares at the dialed number on the screen.

1-800-SOS.

Short, obvious, quick to type. It was designed for the desperate.

With one lingering glance on the battered prescription container, he flutters his wet, tired eyes closed and slowly raises the phone to his ear, having decided to give life this albeit small, fighting chance.


	2. part 2

Kurt doesn't breathe as he listens to the slightly distorted rings on his phone. He's feeling ashamed; he never thought he, of all people, would come to this.

_at least my pride doesn't seem to be completely dead yet._

What a crude thought at a time like this, he thinks to himself.

The ringing stops, having been replaced by a sharp click and what sounds like a redirection.

The static noise is broken by another click, softer this time, and then finally- a voice.

"Hi there, this is the SOS suicide hotline. I'm Blaine, and I'm listening," it says. His voice is pleasant-sounding, a slight, naturally raspy quality that adds a masculine edge, but spoken with soft, comforting tones. Kurt chokes in response; a sob that hadn't quite made its way out of his throat.

"I-" he starts, "I.. don't know, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Talk to me," he encourages, support laced in his words. There's a practiced calm in the way he speaks. "Whatever you're doing, miss, you need to know that there is always, always someone listening. Just drop everything and talk to me, I'm here for you. What's your name?"

Kurt would usually respond to being addressed as "miss" with a snarky, sharp-witted comment that embarrasses the offending party, but that was beyond him right now. He'd gotten used to being addressed as a woman on the phone; his voice _was _an octave higher than most men, but right now- when he's feeling so vulnerable, so broken, so volatile- the simple, honest mistake felt like a stab in the gut.

Even the suicide hotline didn't recognize him as a man. It wasn't personal, nor intentional- but the reality of it hurt.

"My name," he breathes out shakily, "is Kurt Hummel. I'm… I'm seventeen, and g.." his voice breaks- "gay. I'm gay, and I- I get bullied because of it. I.." he really doesn't know how to say this in a way that won't make him want to do it even more. "I'm so tired of it, so tired."

There's a short pause on the other line, and Kurt fears that prejudice is truly inescapable, even on a platform like a suicide hotline.

Blaine, on the other end, is astounded. It is only his third week as a suicide hotline volunteer, and what he encounters is anything beyond what he thought he handle. This hit him far too close to home.

His silence causes Kurt to fear the worst, then-

"Kurt, Kurt, I'm sorry. Oh god, I'm so sorry." Blaine's unprofessionalism shines through the speaker for just a couple moments as he stutters over his mistake. His staged, even talking wavers and Kurt doesn't blame him- being a suicide prevention worker is a hugely sensitive job. One slip-up of words could be the end of someone's life.

"Believe me when I say that I only assumed that because you sound so, so fragile. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." His voice has softened entirely, and Kurt can hear honest remorse and panic in his husky voice.

"...I am," he croaks, suddenly realising how frail he feels. "It's… it's alright." he adds, bleakly, in between sobs.

"Oh," Blaine replies, evidently relieved. "..I'm sorry, Kurt." he means this differently this time. That he's sorry that Kurt's identity is so easily misunderstood. "I'm all ears. Tell me what's eating you."

Kurt hesitates, gripping his thumb in the fist of his hand of his mutilated arm. He takes a deep, audible breath that doesn't do much to stabilise his thoughts.

"I've had it, I've h-had enough," he whispers into the phone. "I feel like I'm o-over."

"You're over?" Blaine asks.

"I'm done. I'm finished. I've lost all the fight in me, they've beaten it out of my system."

The definitive defeat in Kurt's words alarms Blaine. "Kurt, did they seriously hurt you?"

"...I think, I think my rib's broken, and my elbow doesn't feel.. right. But that won't.. won't matter," He pauses to try and inhale a shaky breath of air, failing miserably and choking.

"It will matter, Kurt. _You _matter. You've got too much to live for to quit now."

"I have _nothing_ to live for," he cries. "_Nobody_ loves me, Blaine. They see the gay kid get bashed, s-so, so many times, those lockers have a me-shaped _dent_ in them, f-for god's sake, and _no one _ever stops, _no one _ev-ever _notices._"

"Kurt, that isn't true. Haven't you got parents? They're always going to love you, K-"

"My mother died when I was 8. My father has problems with me being gay and has been holding me at an arm's distance ever since I came out," Kurt interjected, hatefully spitting out his words without stuttering once. "We had a huge argument last night, about me being gay. It ended badly."

"...I'm sorry," Blaine says, soothingly. "but you can't imagine how much pain your passing will cause them, Kurt."

"Give me a reason not to swallow this entire bottle of pills." Kurt says, completely throwing the conversation. He sounds desperate and risky.

Blaine takes the prompt to hurriedly condense as much persuasive meaning into as few words he can possibly think of.

He doesn't ask Kurt to consider the guilt his father will have for the rest of his life because he was "too late".

He doesn't ask Kurt about the scarring he will cause when his father realises that his one slip-up of ignorance he may have contributed to his son's death.

Instead, he makes this about Kurt. It has to be about this kid; he's in no state of mind to think of others right now. Focus on him, Blaine.

"You had enough courage to call this line, Kurt. That must mean a part of you, no matter how small, wants you to stay alive. You're not completely okay with the thought of suicide, you haven't truly accepted defeat."

He was right, Kurt supposes. He did give himself this fighting chance.

"Convince me, Blaine. I… I don't, I don't want to die. I _don't want to die," _he repeats, tears readily falling down his cheeks as he speaks with a thick voice. "I don't want to die, but I think I might have to."

"You never have to do anything, Kurt. Your life is _always, always _your choice."

"No, no, no it isn't." his voice is no more than a tiny whisper at this point. "They… they threatened t-, t-t-" Kurt's stutter gets so bad he has to pause, "-to kill me, they told me they'd kill me. I won't give them the satisfaction of killing me. I'd.. I'd rather be the one to d-do it. I think if I," -how does he phrase this? "offed myself, I'd be sure that- that it hurt as little as possible. They.. they wouldn't do that. No, no- I _won't_ let myself die by their hand. I'll beat them, I'll beat them to the punch," he finishes, with a sense of twisted, pseudo-triumph and integrity that isn't really there.

It makes Blaine heart ache with pity. The poor boy is so, so tired of it that his form of redemption is so diminutive and utterly_ redundant_ as it ultimately gives his tormentors the desired result. His idea of maintaining a shred of dignity before the end of his life was so unambitious, so null. It breaks his heart.

"Either way, you're giving in."

"Maybe it's time I d-do," he mumbles back. "P-puts us all out of our misery."

Blaine decides to take a different approach- one that he hadn't used for any of his other calls.

"Tell me about your dreams, Kurt."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

thank you, dear readers, for your generous reviews for the previous chapter. They really motivate me to write!


	3. part 3

"Tell me about your dreams, Kurt."

This takes Kurt by surprise; he wasn't expecting such a.. happy, promising question at a time like this.

People don't ask you about your dreams when you're at the precipice of life and about to hurl yourself off the edge. Dreams imply that you have a future, that you have plans, that you have ambitions. Dreams are full of hope and aspirations, positive ideas that keep you going because they give you direction.

"I want to know everything about your dreams. Spare me no detail."

_Man, this is a great turn of conversation_, Blaine thinks proudly to himself. _If he focused on all the good things he's going to achieve, all the things he wants to do, he'll remember all he's got to live for and-_

"How… how can I tell you about my d-dreams, if they might- if they might never happen? If, if I… do it, tonight?"

Alright, so Blaine wasn't quite expecting _that._

"I think.. it'll hurt too much, Blaine. I don't want… to think of what might happen. I think it'll either be good.. too good.. or very, very bad. I can't think of.. if I'll make it, if I might n-not make it myself, y'know?"

Fair point, Blaine thinks. He was far from a smooth talker, he knew this much, but he'd never stumbled over one call so hopelessly. He was beginning to get nervous; if he kept screwing up like this, Kurt would be as good as gone. He knew teenagers, having been one until recently, and he knows how volatile they were. It doesn't take much to set off a teenager, much less one that was being tormented for being _gay, _of all things, and was currently having suicidal intentions.

Blaine racks his head, desperately trying to think of something to say that would knock Kurt a couple steps away from the edge. He's at a loss for swift, comforting words that inspire life. He'd built a bank of positive endearments in his head to choose from since the beginning, but that seems to have come up short. He's beginning to feel that awful panic settle in his skin- his palms are slightly moist, his tongue slightly dry. He's still got the headset mic on, but he can't seem to make a sound. _Say something, anything, quick, before he hangs up-_

"B-Blaine?"

"Yeah?" he replies, hating how lame he sounds and his inability to calm his mind. It wasn't just that Kurt was a a sensitive case, it wasn't that at all. It was that his story was far too close to Blaine's own to be comfortable; too personal to look at objectively and react with rationality. He couldn't just pull one of the phrases out of his mental bag of reassurance. It was a curve ball of sorts, one that Blaine was not prepared for in the slightest.

"Do you.. d'you mind if you talk to _me_ about _your_ dreams instead?" Kurt sniffs, still sounding as broken as he did when Blaine first heard his voice.

Once again, the stranger on the other end of the line surprises Blaine.

"...I think it might give me comfort to know that o-others still d-dream." he reasons.

"Of course, of course."

A short pause while Blaine gathers his thoughts and draws a deep breath.

"As a kid, I was a bit of a pipe dreamer," he starts, talking tentatively. Truth be told, he never thought he'd be the one to pour his heart out when he started this volunteer work. He thought he'd be the ear, the confidante, the listener.

Then he's hit with what he thinks might be the best idea he's ever had to rectify this entire phone call.

He'll tell Kurt everything- total, honest, _relevant_ truths about himself. Kurt was but another faceless voice he'd never meet; there was no risk in revealing his inner heart for the sake of this stranger's life. He was more than willing to disclose his past in him, even, because anonymity is comfort. No one can judge you when you are nothing more than a few decibels on one end of an optic fibre. If his story was going to keep Kurt alive, of course he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"I loved my music. I loved it so much, I was convinced I would make a living out of it. I was convinced that, no matter the circumstance, I would hit the big time if I only worked hard enough at it. So I did,"

He pauses again to hear Kurt hiccuped discernibly on the other end.

"I practiced the guitar till my hands were calloused, sore and bleeding. I sang till I was hoarse, so _keen_ on getting it right. It was all that mattered when I was younger, and it was all I could ever dream about. I wanted to make music because it was the blood in my veins.

Everything was going smoothly until high school. Throughout middle school, I was active in the orchestra, the jazz band, the choir- you name it, I was in it. I had become known for the voice I'd worked so hard at; it felt like it was beginning to pay off.

The dream lived until I came out."

Blaine chose to pause here, expecting to have elicited a reaction from Kurt. He didn't hear anything besides the constant crackle of static.

"Kurt, are you still with me?"

"Y-yes."

"Alright, stay with me now, okay?"

"Okay."

"I went to public school in a small town in Ohio. They didn't take too kindly to my apparent homosexuality. After I came out to them, my friends didn't want to be associated with me anymore. I got slurs thrown at me daily in the hall, and bullies used to shove me inside lockers. I missed more class than ever before that semester, because I'd spent so many periods trapped in my locker, bashing the door for someone to hear. They rarely listened,"

Blaine recounts all of this clearly, bitterly, because it hasn't been too long since he'd been out of high school. The memories are still somewhat fresh and the grudges against his bullies are far from forgiven.

"It really hit me after they had taken my guitar one time. They smashed it beyond repair and left it to hang by its strings from the ceiling fan of the cafeteria. The fretboard was splintered and snapped; the body had half of it missing. That guitar had been a gift from my grandfather when I turned 13.

I realised then that my music would never help anyone, that music wouldn't make a difference. I could work my fingers to the bone, and all that would do is line someone else's pockets and give me a couple songs that didn't do anything of any real impact. Music seemed like a shallow, stupid, senseless dream at that point.

They'd justified my talent by saying that it was the gay in me that made me capable of singing- that it was a girly talent and that my sexuality was the only reason for it. They also told me that I was going to hell, because gay people will raise gay children and that we were contagious and evil.

I chided myself for having been focused on such pointless childish endeavors for so long, having been so ignorant to not have been able to see that there were bigger matters at hand.

The first day I came home with a black eye was the day I had a new dream."

"...I'm sorry," rasped a little voice.

"It made me stronger," affirmed Blaine, hoping this would somewhat set an example.

"It's sad to see that this sort of tyranny is still at large in high schools. It became apparent to me how uneducated America was. Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt. Education is the key to get rid of that. I vowed to myself that I'd do something about the minorities of this country, whether it be sexual preference or simply, being different. I was convinced that there was a way to raise awareness in redneck, conservative regions, where exposure to things like these were minimal and often resulted in severe repercussions for the offending party."

"Did you do it?" the same small voice asks.

Blaine smiles a little.

"I did. After surviving high school myself, I went to college as far away as possible from Ohio. I found new friends at college who shared my passion, and we set up a charity after graduating. It's been successful and is operating to this day; we visit the provincial areas of America at a fairly high risk, trying to educate kids as much as we can. We've also got several permanent programs running in the more illiterate areas of America. Most schools we visited began to crack down on hate bullying- not all, but most."

"That's wonderful," Kurt mumbles. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Blaine says.

There's a beat of silence.

"I wish we had gone to your school, Kurt."

Another beat.

"I wish you had, too."

**A/N:**

Sorry for the delay! I needed to work a few kinks out of the plotline.. but here it is, part three! Thank you again for reading and reviewing, dear readers. It sort of makes my life.


	4. part 4

It had taken a bit more talking before Kurt had calmed down from his initial hysterical sobbing. Blaine took this as progress. The conversation between the two strangers became more level, but also infinitely personal. Blaine allowed the deepest parts of his past to flow openly into the speaker, through the lines, and into the ears of the boy on the other side who still sat on his bathroom floor.

Strangely, Kurt found that listening to another was far more comforting than being listened to. Perhaps it helped that this Blaine character had a history that identified with his own. Either way, he never felt the need to divulge in his own simple broadway dreams. He kept them close to his heart whilst listening about Blaine achieving his own respectable, noble ones, finding ease in himself through empathy.

Kurt was still holding on to the bottle of pills, but his grip was loose now, partially because he was beginning to actually feel the raw pain of his injuries, but mostly because he was intently listening to that soft, masculine voice- another person with a story like Kurt's own, very much real, and very much talking to him. Another person who had gone through similar tribulations for the same reasons, and lived to tell the tale. Slowly, but surely, Kurt was closer to confirming his will to live. He was far from okay, and he would be for a while - but things were steadily becoming clearer in his mind. He had more in life than this, he was bigger than hate crimes and bullying and he could do it on his own. He was stronger than this. As Blaine talked to him on the phone, he found himself not quite believing that things would get better, as Blaine himself kept reiterating (_"it gets so much better, I promise.")_, but he found himself _wanting_ to believe it. There was no sense of pretense, or disillusion- simply an urge to believe that he would be alright. This was a start, without a doubt, and Kurt clung onto the hope he hadn't had before he begun to have this conversation.

"I've been talking too much about myself, Kurt, I'm sorry,"

"No, no," Kurt says, "I liked hearing about you."

"Did it serve its purpose?" Blaine asked, softly, hesitantly.

"It did," Kurt replied, the last straggler tears making their way down the contour of Kurt's cheeks. "I don't know when I'll be… okay again, but," -he bites his lip, "but.. I think I'll get there, one day. And while that day isn't today, or any day soon… I think, I think it's going to happen, Blaine."

Blaine had touched his heart. This complete stranger had somehow lived in the same state as Kurt, in the same predicament, and fought. He fought.

"_Death threats are to be taken seriously and directly to the police, Kurt. They won't take this lightly. You can't keep this to yourself, you can't handle this- tell someone. Tell your dad. You'll be safe, I promise."_

Blaine had been right; he had been kidding himself into the idea of integrity by taking his own life before anyone else could. It was wasteful, and ultimately null. The ones that wanted him dead for being who he was would get what they had initially wanted, without ever needing to dirty their hands. _That_ satisfaction should have been the one he denied them of.

Blaine wasn't just comforting, he also gave Kurt information: information about his organization, about how to effectively handle bullying, about a school he had come across with a zero-tolerance bullying policy. About how seeking professional help was, in the long run, a good idea. About how to talk to his dad.

"_The look on my parents' faces when the organization pulled through was unforgettable, Kurt. They never got the lawyer of a kid they'd initially expected, but I've never seen them happier in my life. They knew exactly everything I'd gone through- it made them even prouder. I'd made it despite everything, Kurt. It is so, so possible." _

"You don't know how elated I am that you're feeling better, Kurt."

Kurt allows a small, sad smile sit on his lips. He'll probably never see the face to this voice that had pulled him out of the darkest moments of his life, but he's never been more thankful for his presence. _He sounds so genuine_, Kurt thinks. They both know that this was a rather unconventional suicide hotline call, but all that really mattered was that Kurt was going to be alright. He sought comfort, and he found it in another man's achieved dreams and freakishly parallel past.

"Thank you, Blaine. I mean it- I think I'd have g-gone through with it if it weren't for you."

"You're very, very welcome. I hope you never think about it again, Kurt. Do everything I told you to- it'll be for the best, I promise."

"I will."

They could both sense this (at this point, extremely long) conversation was slowly coming to an organic close.

"Thank you for saving my life."

"Any time, Kurt."

"Goodbye, Blaine."

"Goodbye, Kurt."

They hang up, and Kurt watches his phone for several minutes afterward. He then gets up, unscrews the lid of the orange container, and empties the bottle into the toilet. He flushes the several dozen pills down the drain and throws the prescription bottle into the waste basket.

Kurt's dad comes home later that day to find his son sitting sullenly at the kitchen counter, a cup of lukewarm tea in his hands and bandages around his wrist. The previous tension from last night's argument seems to have dissipated instantaneously as soon as he walked through the doors of his home. Alarmed, he asks his son what was going on, and was in return given more than he had ever asked for.

Death threat, broken rib, fractured elbow, suicide attempt.

Zero-tolerance prep school.

He apologizes from the bottom of his heart to his son, and assures him of his unconditional love for him, regardless of his sexuality. There are tight hugs and a few tears, and the father-son relationship is reconciled once more. Kurt is rushed into a clinic to get patched up. His wrist scars.

Burt enrolls his son at Dalton, where he is safe, and reports the death threat to the police. His tormentors are sentenced with having to do time in a juvenile disciplinary centre; a prominent mark on their permanent records. Restraining orders are set in place.

He also sets up weekly therapy sessions with a psychiatrist for Kurt.

Kurt finishes his senior year of high school without further event or hassle.

**A/N: **Quick update before I go to bed. I'm a bit dubious about this one, I'm sorry it's so short and that it took so long. I just felt this chapter ended where it needed to and lengthening it would only detract from it. Once again, thank you for your reviews and readership, they do mean a lot to me. I'm so glad that this silly piece of writing is having such a great response.


	5. part 5

It's a crisp summer evening when Kurt leaves his therapist's office in downtown Lima. There's a brisk breeze that sweeps through the wide streets of the city district of this little town, and Kurt finds himself feeling a little lighter after that particular session.

He's been going to the same psychiatrist for several months now, visiting her on a weekly basis since the incident. After graduation came his last summer as a high school kid, before he is whisked away to college after these couple of months. The last several weeks have been filled with only having to see the faces of people he loves rather than having to face the generally nasty visage of the entire school- he has had the luxury of selectively spending time with only his favorite former classmates and members of New Directions.

His time at the Dalton academy was brief, seeing as it was only a semester and a half until he graduated, but the short enrollment seems to have paid off as Kurt was able to do his final exams without the burden of bullies on his back. This allowed him effective studying time away from the incessant fears he'd had at McKinley, thus he was ensured better preparation for his exams. They were what mattered now, with college just out of his reach. He'd performed well, he was sure of it, and with any luck, this would be enough to get into the colleges of his choice. Still, the succinct period of time he spend at Dalton meant that he never really had the time or commitment to form new friendships, not when they'd say goodbye so soon afterwards. The few acquaintances he had met at the academy had said their final amicable goodbyes to him at the graduation ceremony, where he received his diploma and walked away from the era of high school with his head held high. No one at Dalton had questioned his motives for transferring so late in the school year, nor had they found out about Kurt's history with being bullied. It was a clean slate that was not worth dirtying; Kurt did not feel the need to divulge. Whatever he kept on the inside he poured out during his sessions with Tabitha, his therapist, or when Mercedes would come over and fill him in with the ongoings of his former school.

He graciously watched his friends win Nationals, and welcomed them home with proud arms when they returned from New York with an obscenely large trophy and the title they'd worked three years for. He could not help but feel out of place when he greeted them at the airport, suddenly filled with longing to have been a part of it with them. It had always hurt to part ways with his friends after the bullying incident, but the necessity of his departure had been unquestionable. Still, the sad pang of wistfulness was ever present, and had there been any regrets in Kurt's high school career, it would have been that he did not contribute to this triumphant win with his friends. He was proud to have been a part of them at some point, and was even prouder to see the people he loved and cared about finally achieve the title they'd worked so hard to get. His slight bitterness was far overshadowed by how happy he was for his friends, who always insisted that he would always be a part of the New Directions, same school or not. He was touched and could not have been more grateful to have found a group of people that have grown into the compact, close unit they are now.

After graduating, these glee club grievances became less and less relevant as he realised that, soon, their time with each other in the small middle-western town of Lima, Ohio was coming to a close. They would be spread from coast to coast, and those familiar faces they'd grown to know would soon be a rare sight as they scatter across the country. While Kurt was sad to see them go, he was grateful to still be able to.

He would be lying if he said his thoughts didn't stray to the faceless stranger he'd met over the phone several months ago. Spending time with his friends over this summer only highlighted what a big mistake offing himself would have been. He was loved. He truly was. In a flurry of emotion and angst, he'd been blinded to all the people in his life that cared about him. To this stranger he owes his life. Although his dad had been the main man in helping him heal (slowly, but surely), Blaine had been the voice that pulled him from the brink. He was only a voice in a moment of amplified anguish, but he was so crucial that Kurt simply can't get that soothing voice out of his mind. It didn't haunt him; that wasn't what it was at all… if anything, he wishes more than anything to get more of it. It's awfully cheesy, but it doesn't stop it from being true- Kurt still hears the echoes of those honest, endearing words whenever he finds himself in doubt or distress. He doesn't know how many times he's entered _'Educare'_ into the google search engine, trying to trace this Blaine person _somehow_ but always coming up short. The organization website merely states that the founders were 'a group of determined kids from the University of Michigan that had a collective dream.' Kurt could not help but be frustrated by their modesty. It wasn't as if he could just send an email either; he didn't even know the man's last name. For a while, Kurt was perplexed by the enigma that is Blaine.

At this point though, on this breezy summer evening, Kurt Hummel's previous fascination with Blaine had simmered down significantly. He no longer sought to find the man, and has accepted him for what he will always be- a voice of comfort during Kurt's darkest hour. No more, no less. Ohio is a state of many inhabitants; the chances of ever meeting this man are little to none. Kurt is glad to have had that short space of time where he was a part of his life, and is forever grateful that this stranger had put aside time to volunteer at a suicide hotline centre and had managed to convince Kurt that, for the first time in a long time, life is beautiful and essentially, worth living. Blaine was the pivot of this tragic little episode of his life; his teenage troubles and suicidal thoughts are but a bump in Kurt Hummel's existence. It is admittedly a rather large and significant bump, but it is just another bump all the same. It is simply time to move on.

He turns a corner to walk down the street where his car is parked; a conspicuously large black navigator that sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb among the much smaller sedans parked around it. Although the Ohio summer gets painfully hot, it had been raining recently, and this evening's chill had just begun to pick up. Kurt pulls his light cardigan closer to himself, shoving his hands deep into the pockets. He's about to get to his car when he hears the sounds of live music going on further down the road.

There aren't many bars in Lima. The one down this particular road happens to be the only live music bar in this town. The next town over, Westerville, has a couple more to its name. Being under 21, Kurt himself has never been in one, but it sounds like they're having an open mic night of some sort tonight. He takes a quick glance at the watch, and then his car, and then decides it couldn't hurt to take a peek. After all, he'd missed live music. Glee was his last outlet for that and his abrupt leaving meant he never got to properly say goodbye to performing music. Dalton Academy had the Warblers, he supposes, but they were far too accomplished and polished for Kurt to even consider getting on board for such a noncommittal period of time.

The bar is, as most bars are, dimly lit and it looks like there's a decent audience in there. Kurt would have been deterred from further investigation by all the people had it not been for the sultry sounds emanating from inside the bar.

…_I feel like I'm lost._

He can see that most of the bar's patrons are facing the stage and not the entrance, so he is able to slip in unnoticed. He has made the smart decision to take off his very cool, albeit juvenile seamonkey watch before doing so. No one turns a head at the underage teenager that has just walked into the bar.

_I feel like I'm not sure if I feel anything at all._

Now that he's inside, he can hear the current performer's voice loud and clear. It's coming from the small stage at the back of the room lit with purple, ambient light. It's a pristine, clean, voice that sings these words. A slight husk, a slight grainy quality to an overall light sounding tune. His voice isn't anything spectacular, it's nothing out of the ordinary- it just has a certain.. quality to it. It sounds like comfort. Like familiarity. It almost sounds _warm._ It's a soothing song, very simple, mostly vocals with just a hint of guitar to accompany it. Reminiscent of Jack Johnson, maybe some early Jason Mraz. Kurt sways in the dark, far from the stage, unable to see the performer behind the small mass of standing watchers in front of him. He doesn't mind, really. He closes his eyes and lets the wonderful feeling of live music engulf him.

_...I just need someone to love._

_So my situation's rough_

_and that just makes me a dumb human_

_like you._

Kurt's never heard this song before; maybe it's an original. It's a very sweet song, though. It sounds honest, written with a lot of heart. The performer sounds comfortable performing it, playing the slightly off-beat guitar chord progressions with a practiced ease in perfect timing with the song's lyrics. He identifies with the song's sincere, simple lyrics and smiles a sad smile.

_...a human like you._

The performer plays the last closing notes of his little ballad, ending the song into silence that is soon broken by earnest applause. Kurt's opened his eyes now, watching intently on the stage as the standing crowd dissipates slightly as several patrons sit down at tables. He takes a couple steps closer, getting a better view on the stage as the applause goes on. He finally gets a glimpse of the person behind the song- a man sitting on a stool with a guitar in his lap, donning a pink plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He smiles an appreciative closed-mouth smile at the audience, his eyes shining brightly under a large tuft of short, untamed brown curls. He's got some light scruff around his chin to hide his otherwise youthful face. He readjusts the microphone stand in front of him and pulls it closer to his mouth.

"Thank you," the man says into the microphone. "You've been a wonderful audience. I'm here every Friday night. Once again, thank you, and goodnight."

The voice is incontrovertible. It's undeniable. Kurt's eyes widen in awed cognition.

_You're kidding._

Kurt's sure he's mimicking some sort of blow-up doll at the moment, as his jaw has slackened and hangs open as he weighs the possibilities of the situation at hand. The shock sinks in a second later and his mind goes in a frantic spin as he mulls over what to do next.

_I've got to talk to him. _

But how? Would he even remember the conversation? He must go through dozens of calls a day, Kurt thinks. There's no way that one call from _months_ ago could have lingered in his mind, right?

_There's a chance it could have._

Kurt is veritably freaking out. His mind's a mess and all he can do is stare at the man on stage who was turning his mic off. The man on the stage who, incidentally, convinced him to keep living.

He watches him slowly (almost shakily) descend from the tall wooden stool and he carefully sets the guitar down on the floor.

He then watches him reach for a pair of worn crutches.


	6. part 6

Kurt watches him make his way to a table where his friend seems to be sat at. His friend helps him sit, taking his crutches away from him and settling them against a free stool. Blaine's face is radiant, obviously pleased with his performance. Drink in hand, he seems completely at ease. There's a sheen of sweat on his neck and forehead, no doubt from the heat of the stagelights, but he doesn't seem to notice at all.

Kurt is frozen in wonderment.

Several feet away from him sits the man who saved his life, so to speak. He doesn't know whether to approach him or not. While he'd love to- he really would- he can't help but be scared.

This man had every right to give him a strange look and ignore him should he introduce himself to him. After all, they had never met in person. The call itself was the only link between them two, and even then, it was such an intangible bond- if he could even call it that, of course. The attachment was one-sided, and Blaine had absolutely no reason to remember that call.

...but people loved to be thanked, don't they? Humans loved to be acknowledged; to be told they were of some significance in another's life. A total stranger's life, Kurt supposes, but he was a person all the same. He could easily walk up to him, thank him, and then leave.

Would he be able to just leave?

That call was the decisive element in Kurt's struggle between life and death. It will remain in his mind a crucial turning point forever, and he can't help but feel some _weight_ while watches Blaine at a distance.

Just to go up to the man and say, hey_,_ thanks to you, _I made it._

The man's eyes sparkle as he talks. He's animated, vibrant. His teeth are perfect, save for a very slight underbite that makes him look a little goofy. Kurt understands why he does what he does- that smile on his face looked right at home. Even in the dim lighting of the club, he could make out laughter lines on his face- light creases at the corners of his eyes, at the sides of his lips- proof that he was no stranger to smiles. His laugh was full and tooth-bearing. In between laughs, he didn't even close his mouth at all, he let his jaw hang in an open-mouthed grin. Kurt's a little envious of how incandescent his joy was.

Kurt realises he's been watching him for a while now, and is starting to feel uncomfortable without the distraction of a live performance. It's now or never, he figures. After watching his actions for a while, he deduces that Blaine seems like an amicable person. Definitely not the type to scoff at him or intentionally disregard him, at least. It couldn't hurt to mumble a couple words of gratitude and then disappear out of his life forever- a couple of words, just to satisfy himself.

Thinking brave thoughts, Kurt takes a couple of steps towards the little bar table Blaine and his friend are sat at. His fists are clenched into tight balls at his sides as he walks stiffly towards the curly-headed man who was still chatting brightly to the man opposite him.

Kurt's about five feet away when there's a roar behind Blaine. A bunch of people come out of nowhere and clamber all over him- ruffling his hair, patting his shoulders, giving him hugs from behind, kissing his cheeks. They're quite loud in their greeting. Blaine looks _ecstatic_- Kurt gets the feeling that he's the type to get excited about things rather easily- as he returns each gesture with an equally enthusiastic hello. These new arrivals look like good friends of his. They quickly crowd the table and greet the friend Blaine is with, immediately heightening the noise and conversation.

Kurt, intimidated by the rambunctiousness of his friends, aborts his plans and shrinks back towards the exit of the room. Whatever chance he'd had of talking to him was out the window now- he supposed fate had never meant for them to meet. That, or he was just a coward. Feeling a little deflated, he spares one fleeting glance at his beaming face before he exits through the door and back into the slightly chillier summer dusk.

* * *

><p>It's a week until he next sees Blaine.<p>

Frustrated at his cowardice from last week's failed attempt to talk to him, he walks from his therapist's office with a bit more stride and determination than usual. The light drizzling rain doesn't deter him- he simply quickens his pace before his flawless head of hair begins to go limp. He walks with purpose and swivels on his heel around the street corner, until he walks past his usual parking spot and towards the bar.

"_You've been a wonderful audience. I'm here every friday night."_

Kurt takes note of the rolling dark clouds up ahead. It looks like it might rain tonight. He then takes a quick look around the deserted street, before he takes a deep breath and walks in.

_you're not backing out this time,_ he thinks to himself. He finds a secluded, unoccupied table at the back of the bar, never taking his eyes off of the man sitting center stage in a purple glow. He's singing a different tune tonight.

_...except there's no backstage, and there's no place for me._

Kurt smiles a little as he sits frigidly on the tall bar stool. Somehow, his songs always seem to hit a little close to home for him. It's a pleasant sort of coincidence.

_remind me that it's okay, not to have a backstage or a place_

_to hide._

"Hey sweetheart, what can I get you?"

This startles Kurt. He jumps a little when he sees a petite waitress holding an empty tray under her arm and smiling at him politely.

"Ah- um, I'll uh, have a beer," he stutters, obviously tripping over his words and wishing his hardest that he won't get kicked out for being under age.

"Mhm. How old are you?"

"T-twenty one."

"Yeah? How old are you really?"

Kurt shoots a helpless look at the stage, where Blaine is still playing merrily on his guitar, and back at the waitress who followed his gaze with a knowing look. She looks at him intently, her mouth slightly curled, waiting for an answer.

Kurt sighs in defeat. "I'm seventeen," he says in a quiet voice, looking at his lap.

She laughs and leans her elbow on the table. "You don't look a day over fifteen, you cutie. I'll get you a coke, and you can keep watching Blainey over there, how about that?"

Her tone was a little condescending, and really, Kurt wasn't a _baby,_ but her understanding was welcome nonetheless. Kurt simply nodded silently and the waitress walked away to get his order.

_well I've got a reason to believe _

_in the power of you and me_

_to break… this spell._

Blaine looks up from his guitar at this point, still singing in earnest, but looking into the crowd and making eye contact as all good performers ought to do. After his first encounter with this Blaine persona a week ago, his face has been drifting in and out of Kurt's mind constantly. It's taken him a while to notice how good-looking this man really was.

"Here you go, sweetheart." the waitress is back, setting an iced coke on the small, round table.

"Thank you," Kurt says.

"So what brings a kid like you here?" she asks, crossing her arms on the table, looking eager to strike a conversation with him.

"I just.. wanted to see some live shows." which is true, to be fair.

She nods, and turns to watch Blaine finish up his song.

_I still think that we're in love._

"He's some singer, huh."

Kurt nods again in agreement. He really had grown attached to that voice.

_Well I still think that we're in love._

The few quiet moments following the end of the song are accented by the last few echoing notes of the guitar and the telltale pattering of steady rain outside.

The quiet is shortly followed by a bout of applause, to which the performer smiles appreciatively at. He bids his goodnight and thanks the audience as he did the last performance, and once again, reaches for the crutches propped up next to him.

Kurt's palms feel clammy, even as he grips the cool glass of his drink in both hands. He has to wipe the condensation off of his hands onto his jeans before he slowly descends from the tall barstool. He leaves several bills on the table, and nods to the waitress who had given him his drink with a small smile.

He had predicted that Blaine would go sit with a friend like he did last time. Unfortunately for Kurt, by them time he had convinced himself to walk over to him, Blaine already has his coat on and his hood pulled up as he heads to the back door of the bar, his guitar strapped to his back. His friends are nowhere to be seen. Kurt sort of jumpstarts when he realises he's leaving and starts to hurriedly make his way to the other end of the bar, silently cursing at having chosen to sit so far away. He's almost there when Blaine's about to turn out the door, and he almost calls out to him- his words formed the word, but no sound came out.

By the time he gets to the door, Blaine is gone.

* * *

><p>Kurt walks out the bar feeling more frustrated than ever. He had plucked enough courage this time, prepared himself a little mental speech and everything. And yet, somehow, fate just kept butting in at inopportune moments. He was beginning to wonder whether the universe was trying to tell him something.<p>

He runs around the street corner to get to his parked car, holding his satchel above his head under the rain that was increasingly getting heavier. He fumbles with his keys before finally plopping his slightly damp self into the driver's seat of his large black SUV, slamming the door closed and breathing a dejected sigh.

He couldn't keep doing this. He'd eventually waste all his friday evenings waiting to finally talk to this one person he was only tethered to in the loosest of ways. It wasn't healthy to dwell for too long, nor was it healthy to feel this anxious to meet somebody.

Feeling disappointed, he shifts his gear into drive and starts up his engine.

He's so consumed by tonight's disheartening events that he missed the turn completely and had to circle several blocks.

Downtown Lima was drab grey and colourless on this late summer evening. Kurt is transfixed on the steady swiping of his windshield wipers as he stops at a red light, willing his thoughts away from Blaine.

No one is around. Lima is a quiet place, and at the present time of late evening, most places were closed and the area was quite deserted. It wasn't strange to not see any cars or cabs on the road at this hour.

Through the fog and the haze of showers, he spots a lone, dark figure standing by a cab stand further down the road.

_It's him._

Kurt is only several hundred feet away, giving him only a handful of moments to assess this situation.

_Right, okay, Blaine is standing there in the pouring rain waiting for a cab. You could either offer him a ride, or pass by him and swear to never look for his face again. You could risk embarrassing yourself to oblivion or regretting this forever and ever and-_

He slams the brakes abruptly as he realises he's almost completely passed the cab stand and the man who stands there in the downpour, leaning on his crutches, without an umbrella.

He sees Blaine eyeing the car cautiously- it did come to a sudden, clumsy stop almost right in front of him, after all.

Before Kurt can really give it a second thought, he swings the car door open and speaks above the sound of falling rain and in a lower register.

"H-hey, do you need a ride?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I am terribly sorry for how long this update has taken, dear readers.


	7. part 7

"H-hey, do you need a ride?"

The rain's heavy mist hides Blaine's face and reaction to this question, but he sees him move toward the car anyway. He slowly slips the guitar from his back one shoulder at a time with ease, and he opens the backseat door to slip the wet guitar case and both crutches on the floor of Kurt's car.

"Thank you so much," Blaine tells him, when he's within earshot. "This weather is unbelievable."

He closes the back door then hobbles his way around the car as fast as he can and finally sits himself down into the passenger seat next to Kurt.

"I'm sorry I'm so wet," Blaine says apologetically, holding his sodden jacket in his hands so as to not get the car's leather upholstery wet.

As Blaine was settling his guitar in behind him, Kurt was sat awkwardly in the driver's seat and subconsciously tugged at his sleeves to better hide the raised scars on the inside of his wrist.

It takes a minute for Kurt to reply. He doesn't make eye contact with Blaine for fear of his voice shaking more than it already might.

"It's alright, and you're welcome."

Kurt's voice is completely foreign to himself. He's a singer, so fabricating voices is easy for him. He speaks an octave lower than his usual pitch, and he textures his voice by adding a bit of gruffness to it. It's the absolute polar opposite of what his voice naturally is.

The polar opposite of what his voice sounded like during that phone call all those months ago.

Only then does he dare to meet Blaine's eyes.

There is no epiphany when their eyes meet, no revelation. Neither parties fell hopelessly in love in the limpid pools of each other's eyes, nor was some ethereal attachment between the two formed. The universe did not 'click'; time did not stop.

Kurt's chest, however, did feel a little tighter than before, and he finds himself unable to stop his lips from curling into a small smile.

Because while the ground did not shift and the sky did not clear at that moment, something did happen. What _did_ happen was that Kurt noticed that Blaine has very nice eyes.

Blaine has beautiful, big, earnest honey-coloured eyes. There is a ring of green around the rim and his lavishly long, and slightly wet lashes frame his eyes perfectly. His eyes gleam and are bright against the dim evening light.

A sound deduction- nothing spectacular about it. Because when it came down to it, that is what one would generally deduce upon meeting someone for the first time.

Because as deep a connection Kurt felt to Blaine, he knew it in his gut that it was not mutual. Essentially, they were strangers meeting each other for the first time.

First impressions are of the exterior, of one's surface. While Kurt _wishes_ some profound link between the two could be established with such ease and immediacy, that is simply not how it worked. Strangers have to make an effort to get to know one another.

It was just that one stranger wasn't aware that he had saved the other stranger's life.

"I'm Blaine," he offers, wiping a wet hand on his damp jeans and then politely holding it out for Kurt. "Blaine Anderson."

For the second time that night, Kurt enters a state of panic.

_If I tell him my name, he might figure out who I am. Then he might run away- it'll seem like I sought him out. I'll come off as a huge, sad, desperate creeper. He'll make some awkward excuse and leave the car for fear that I'd kidnap him and take him somewhere strange to be my comfort forever and ever and I'll never see his face again and he'll never know how grateful I am-_

"I'm Mike Chang," Kurt blurts out, speaking a little too fast, a little too breathless and a lot too deep. He shakes his hand quickly and lightly and before he knows it, his hand is back in his lap and he's avoiding Blaine's gaze.

_Mike? Mike CHANG? Anyone, ANYONE on the face of this planet and you have to go for Mike CHANG? You bumbling moron, you don't even look REMOTELY asian, are you actually defective? What the fuck, Kurt?_

Kurt's busy admonishing his stupid, impulsive brain at the little outburst, but he doesn't miss the odd look that Blaine gives him.

"I'm adopted," he hurriedly rectifies, before coughing hoarsely. He decides to quickly veer the conversation in a different direction; god knows he'd eventually blow his cover trying too hard to be Mike Chang. "So where are you headed?"

Blaine tells him his address and Kurt begins to drive. The silence that follows permeates the air inside the car for several painful minutes until it's too awkward for Kurt to bear.

"I… saw your show at the bar on west street," Kurt offers, quietly.

"Oh, did you?"

"Yeah. You were really great."

Blaine smiles, teeth and eye crinkles and all. There's that cute little underbite again, Kurt thinks.

"Aw, that's sweet, thank you," he says, graciously. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

Kurt nods a little in response, smiling shyly. He opens his mouth slightly, as if to say something, but his nerves prompt him to quickly shut it again and bite his tongue. He jerks his neck a little too quickly and turns his focus back on the road. He can feel Blaine's confused look linger, egging the blush to burn brighter under his skin and he's sure that Blaine thinks he's a right tool at this point. If it was awkward before, it's downright uncomfortable now. He isn't very good around new people. Not anymore.

There's more silence as the two strangers drive to the tune of the softening patter of rain against the car windows. Blaine turns his head to look out the window, probably sizing up the weather. Kurt steals a quick glance, but doesn't risk anything more than that fleeting look.

You see, Kurt hadn't always been so quiet. Personality-wise, he was actually quite outspoken in that he _did_ feel the need to voice his opinions and that he didn't use to be so shy about it. Talking to people used to be so easy for a younger, brighter Kurt. Years of bullying tend to change that sort of aspect and by the end of his high school career, he'd become far more withdrawn than his eight year old self would have liked. He'd been conditioned to adapt to his (albeit unpleasant) surroundings, and though he tried his very hardest not to stand out and become a target… well, you know how that one went.

As it turns out, Blaine doesn't live very far away. The car ride's over before Kurt knows it and a regrettably small amount of conversation has been made. This was supposed to be his chance to finally, _finally_ talk to Blaine, but it really didn't do much for him at all. He helps Blaine get his guitar out of his car and hands him his crutches.

"Thanks again, Mike. I really, really appreciate the help. It was so kind of you."

Kurt nods and smiles again in response, not trusting himself to be able to fabricate the same fake, low voice he had when he first spoke to Blaine.

"I guess I'll see you around," Blaine says. Kurt hates to say goodbye after mustering up all that nerve and effort to finally talk to him and leaving with virtually nothing, but he nods again.

"… maybe at the bar?"

Kurt nods a little harder at that, earning him a grin in return.

"I'll find you next friday, then. I owe you a drink, at the very least."

Kurt reckons the nodding is getting a little ridiculous at this point, and decides to risk it and try his hardest to resemble 'Mike''s voice as he had earlier this evening so as to not seem mentally deficient.

"N-no! You don't have to-" he starts, voice a touch too low but relatively similar to the one he had put on before.

"-I insist." Blaine interjects, holding a hand up that said no arguments. "Seeya, Mike."

* * *

><p>Kurt was expecting Blaine to buy him a drink that next friday night, say a couple of parting words, and leave after they had settled the score.<p>

What he doesn't expect is for Blaine to sit down with him after his set that next friday evening, order a drink for himself, and have a proper conversation with the dumb kid he'd hitched a ride from last week.

Now, what we need to keep in mind is that Kurt, being a bit of a stranger to alcohol, has quite a meagre tolerance. Blaine had bought him a drink on the assumption that he was of legal drinking age, and Kurt had only just managed to say "vodka soda" without stumbling when Blaine asked him what his drink was. Not to say that all teenagers of Kurt's age were unfamiliar with booze- the ones that are far outweigh the ones that aren't- but Kurt just happens to be the type who hadn't really had time to build a tolerance when he was busy trying to hold his life together.

Kurt tries to match the pace at which Blaine is drinking his own drink, so as to not seem too inexperienced. He also seems to have successfully hidden his internal grimace at the burning sensation of his rather strong drink. It's just a bit of bad luck that Blaine seems to down the drink within minutes, making Kurt feel obliged to keep up and downing his drink himself. Blaine nods appreciatively at this and orders two more drinks, much to Kurt's dismay. He's already feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges as it is.

The night draws on and it darkens significantly outside, but time does nothing to deter the two. Blaine's set had been over for hours, yet the numerous empty glasses on their table stand testament to the fact that neither of the two had a reason to leave since.

Although Kurt is slightly inebriated (alright, a fair bit inebriated) he is still very careful to maintain his stance as 'Mike' and is very selective with what he shares with Blaine. He only tells him about very general things, and perhaps a few certain personal traits that don't have anything to do with the suicide attempt incident.

"-and we started a _sex riot-_"

"No!" Blaine laughs in disbelief, his mouth forming a comical 'o' shape.

"I am so serious," Kurt assures, lowering his eyes and leaning towards Blaine as if he was sharing a secret. "kids began taking their clothes off and everything. Our cheer coach had to pull the fire alarm."

Blaine's dopey grin fuels their already child-like giggling. "Oh god, high school," he mutters, as they come down from their giggles. "I miss it." he admits.

Kurt musters a tight smile and agrees. Although he's got his fair share of pleasant high school experiences, the unpleasant experiences far outweigh them. He also has to act like he's _really_ reminiscing the old high school days, because right now, he is Mike Chang, 21 years old, and at home in Ohio on his summer break from college. When Blaine made the offhanded comment that he looked a lot younger than his age, he managed to suppress a choke.

"So Mike," Blaine starts, "what do you wanna do after college?"

Kurt's only just gotten his pass into college, and he's acting his best to seem familiarised with the college experience. Naturally, he just spiels off about the dreams he's had since he was a kid in lieu of any actual plans. Dreams of becoming a journalist, of writing about things that mattered, of delivering the truth to people and being a factor in the movement to quash ignorance. Dreams he'd found impossible to tell Blaine down a phone line, because he was so convinced his silly dreams would never get the chance to happen, not if he wasn't around to make them happen. Not only that, but Kurt is very, very inarticulate when he's a sobbing mess.

"...y'know, that sort of stuff." Kurt takes a sip from his drink in an attempt to seem nonchalant when really, this was a very big step for him. He relishes the now- bearable burn, before deciding to run with a bold streak. Liquid courage indeed. "So what do you do? Besides this, I mean."

"Oh," Blaine shrugs. "I'm a part of a charity called Educare. We go around to the lesser educated places of the States to teach them about sex education, social awareness, et cetera. I used to be able to travel with them, but-" he indicates to his foot, "I'm not really in the best shape to travel right now. Plus I've got physiotherapy to attend, so I can't be moving around everywhere. Now I just do admin work and set up online stuff."

Kurt's surprised he doesn't mention the suicide hotline job. Maybe he quit? He doesn't push it yet, though.

"If you don't mind me asking-"

"No, it's fine. I got shot," Blaine says, in an alarmingly casual tone. "Some of the rednecks weren't too happy that we were teaching their kids about the existence of them '_damned homosexuals'_, and pulled his shotgun on us. We ran for it, but he got me in the foot. The nerves were damaged badly enough for me to lose feeling. It's slowly healing, but it's taking a lot of time."

Kurt's jaw is a little slack. "I- I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, you didn't shoot me in the foot." Blaine says, as he gives him a wry smile. "Ironic how they managed to get the one gay kid out of seven straight ones."

There's a short pause in which both of them stare down at their drinks, not really knowing what to say after that.

"It'll get better though, won't it?" Kurt asks, timidly, lowly, not removing his eyes from his drink.

"We didn't think it would, for a while." Blaine says, also quiet. "I was going to have a permanent limp. But one day, I was able to wiggle a single toe and since then, we've been making slow but definite progress."

The bar had cleared out to a certain extent at that point, making it easier for them to talk. It also said something about how long they'd been there. "That's good to hear," Kurt says, honesty in his voice.

Blaine runs a hand through dark curls that just fall back onto his his forehead, before offering Kurt a little smile.

_Now or never,_ Kurt thinks.

"Do you do anything else?"

"No, just that." Blaine says, a little perplexed at the odd question Kurt had asked.

"Right," Kurt says, feeling deflated. If the confusion hadn't been such a factor, he would have noticed that the pang he felt in his gut was one of sadness.

"It's late, Mike. We should get going," he says. Kurt thinks his last question might have been too forward, too obvious, too _searching_ and that it made him feel uncomfortable enough to want to escape. Blaine takes his wallet out, and Kurt mirrors him and does the same, but Blaine isn't having any of it. "No, none of that. We agreed; I'm paying."

Kurt opens his mouth to protest but Blaine's already put several bills on the table and is looking at him pointedly, with raised eyebrows. Kurt knows it's pointless by then, but he smiles and thanks him anyway.

"Can I offer you a ride home, at least?"

"A ride home would be great, thanks."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I'm sorry for the wait, kids! But I'm back from my holiday and it's back to regular (well...) updates for this story. I do hope this is worth the wait, but feel free to voice dissatisfactions should you have any. Much love to readers and reviewers!


	8. part 8

**A/N: **I am so unbelievably apologetic for the wait, dear readers. Your kind reviews have made my heart swell to sizes that should be illegal. School has started for me and it has been a hectic nightmare of sorts, so writing time is scarce nowadays. Also, I won't lie, I've been pre-occupied with writing my other story, **Embers. **It's a Klaine fairytale-esque sort of story, and I am kind of obsessed with it at the moment. I think I may love you forever if you gave it a chance.

**check it out here: .net/s/7311916/1/Embers**

This part's a little shorter, but believe me, I had enough trouble getting it to this length. I hope you'll all bear with me and this story, it's not over yet!

* * *

><p>Depending on how your high school experience goes, you will either come out of your shell, or have one built for you and be shoved forcefully inside it. Or you might be indifferent to it all and remain the same, you never know.<p>

There's a reason why Kurt isn't as open as he used to be.

There's a reason why Kurt expected Blaine to walk away, or ignore him, or even lash out in ridicule.

Somewhere along all the bullying and singling out and running, Kurt had stopped believing in the good in people. He became jaded and started building walls instead of bridges. Sadly, everything is justified.

He stopped believing in everyone else. He saw little good in the world and therefore tried his hardest not to let them in. It was a security measure.

What he does believe in is his family. He believes in Burt, the father who is still learning but is still so _eager_ to. Willing. Loving. He believes in Carole, who is the closest thing he will ever have to a real mother. She was so accepting and understanding of a boy that had only been in her life for several years.

As much as he hates to admit it, he also believes in Finn. The boy who he'd had a rocky start with, but grew to love as a brother and a friend. Naive, simple-minded, honest Finn. He knows he meant it when he told him he had his back.

Ultimately, Kurt is beginning to believe in himself again. And when he does, he tells himself, that's when he'll probably begin to understand Blaine. A man who had spent a portion of his life working as a volunteer to believe in other people's lives when they themselves wouldn't.

* * *

><p>The first night Kurt and Blaine had gone for drinks had ended on a high note. Granted, they almost killed themselves entrusting a barely sober Kurt with the driver's wheel, but they had given themselves (at the very least) some buffer time before they left to get some of the drunkenness out of their system.<p>

Kurt had never been more grateful that he had opted for an automatic and not a manual car, because though he had sobered up enough to be aware of his surroundings, he found his limbs were still feeling a bit detached but overall, satisfactorily functioning.

When Blaine turned in the passenger's seat to hug him goodbye, Kurt had that similar uncomfortable feeling he'd had earlier when Blaine bought him his drink. Insecure would have been an understatement- he was bracing himself for another possible final goodbye. When Blaine's arms wrapped around him in an awkward but warm hug, he can't help but breathe in the sharp scent of rum on his breath and the soothing smell of Blaine's musky cologne. His slightly wild ringlet curls tickled Kurt's cheek, soft as down. Everything about Blaine is comfort.

When he pulls away, unable to formulate a suitably momentous goodbye, Blaine cuts in by fumbling clumsily around his pants and patting _everywhere _until he finds his phone (with a matching sound of triumph.) He then typed out "Mike" on his iPhone and handed him the empty contact page with a grin.

And that is the story of how Kurt Hummel, currently dubbed Mike Chang, became Blaine Anderson's regular ride home every friday night.

Tonight, he's sitting alone at the same table he'd sat at with Blaine when they first had drinks. The difference is that there is no vodka in his soda, and that he is actually waiting for a friend to occupy the seat opposite him.

As if on cue, his bubbly friend slowly totters over after finishing up his set with that now familiar cheery smile on his face.

"Where's your other crutch?" Kurt inquires, pointing at the absence of one of the sticks.

"Physio told me I could start trying to walk with just one," he grins. "it's gotten a little better."

"Blaine, that's so great." Kurt says, in earnest.

He's about to call the waitress over to get Blaine's drink when he notices Blaine hadn't sat down.

"Hey, listen. Do you mind if we get out of here?" Blaine asks, tentatively.

Kurt doesn't know why, but his heart lurches.

"I skipped lunch today and I'm about to drop _dead_ from starvation."

Kurt laughs nervously at the wording and brushes off that drop in his stomach.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

It isn't until they've sat down in a booth at Breadstix that he realises how much this resembles a date.

_Not a date, Kurt,_ he admonishes. _Dinner. Dinner with a friend._

Dinner with a friend in ambient lighting and jazz music in the most notorious couple joint in town- from high school sweethearts to dating colleagues to married couples. Breadstix just happens to have a very relaxing vibe to it, and it draws a lot of customers in. It's also a fairly popular hang out spot in general for most high school kids.

Blaine sits across from him, the dim overhead lamp casting faint shadows under his pretty lashes. He sort of wishes that he really was on a date with him.

He pushes the thought away when he looks up at Blaine who is looking at the menu with such intensity that is most definitely laughable. He makes this known to him, earning him a joking scowl.

"If looks could kill, Blaine."

"Shut up, Mike."

The nickname has become sort of second nature at this point. Kurt has started to respond to it, for starters. He'd always get a slightly strange look from Blaine when he's been calling his name for ages and he hasn't batted an eyelash. It's also become easier to ignore the uncomfortable lump in his throat every time he calls him that. He can feel the ominous build, but Kurt (as you may have noticed by now) has an awful habit of trying to run away. He isn't quite ready to face the music just yet.

"Alright, you keep poring over your food choices, I'll just slip to the bathroom."

"Go for it, man."

What Kurt doesn't see after he's slipped through the bathroom door is a bunch of letterman jackets rising from the corner booth of the restaurant and following suit.

* * *

><p>Blaine's been sitting at the booth by himself for a while now, give or take fifteen minutes. He's beginning to wonder what on earth Mike is doing in the bathroom and is becoming a little more paranoid as each second ticks by.<p>

He'd thought little of asking Mike to dinner that night; after all, they were only friends and casual ones at that. Sure, he knows Breadstix has a romantic vibe and it seems a little inappropriate to take a friend there, but the food is really good and they're legally unable to stop bringing him breadsticks and…

Alright, he might be a _little_ attracted to Mike.

Very, very mildly attracted to Mike.

He's a little odd at times, almost forgetting who he is and can be pretty ditzy. But for all of his quirks, there is his adorable charm and innate wit to counter it threefold. It kind of bewilders him how strangely they met, but it's certainly unlike anything else he'd ever experienced.

He's a full two years younger than Blaine himself, and even then, he barely looks his age. There's something so innocent about his face- the big, doe-like eyes in particular make him look so young and vulnerable. He's kind of really cute.

Blaine shakes his head as the thought passes.

_You can't be thinking like that. You haven't even known him for a month._

It's true, they barely know each other. When it comes down to it, Mike is simply a nice, friendly college kid that gave Blaine a ride out of the pure goodness of his heart. They've found a couple things in common and have become friends. He doesn't know much about Mike's history, his family, his friends, or even that much about himself. There are still a lot of question marks around him; Blaine can almost feel them. There's a whole world behind this kid and it worries Blaine how intrigued he's become in just a matter of weeks. Friday used to be a night to unravel himself in music- now it's a night to have a couple drinks with Mike. His friends had started traveling again the week before he and Mike met, but Mike isn't just some last resort. He's really sweet and Blaine looks forward to fridays more than ever now because of him.

He checks his watch again. It's been twenty minutes now, and he's really worried.

He wouldn't have freaked out and run out of the restaurant, would he? Did _he_ think it was a date? _Shit_, had Blaine come off too strong and scared him off?

He pulls the napkin from his lap and places it on the table and stands without the help of his crutch. His foot has really been improving thanks to rigorous therapy, so he's able to make his way to the bathrooms at a rushed pace.

* * *

><p>Kurt had just entered the bathroom when the doors swung open behind him.<p>

"I thought we made it clear for you, Hummel."

Kurt's heart palpitates and falls somewhere around his ankles. His throat tightens as he realises who it is.

_This isn't happening._

"There ain't any room for queers like you in Lima."

"I have no intention of staying, Karofsky."

His voice wavers only slightly, but he still gathers the nerve to turn around and meet the hulking boy in the eye. Behind him stand several football jock goons, an unsettlingly sinister grin on each of their acne-ridden faces.

"But then you go around flaunting that little _boyfriend_ of yours, and it makes us think that you still haven't learnt your lesson."

They advance on him, and Kurt knows he's clearly outnumbered. There are five of them and only one of him. He stops backing up when he feels the cold porcelain sink digging into his back.

He's got nowhere to go.

"What do you say, boys?" Karofsky asks, mockingly. "One for old time's sake?"


	9. part 9

_One punch, two punch, three punch, four._

_Hummel buttfucks like a whore._

_Five punch, six punch, seven punch, more._

_Hummel's broken on the floor._

* * *

><p>Blaine stumbles momentarily, having to grab the side of a booth to steady himself. The bathroom that hadn't seemed so far away then looks like quite a stretch now.<p>

_All right, so maybe walking without the crutches was a bad idea, _he thinks. He hobbles back to where his crutch is propped up beside their booth before checking on his incapacitated leg and turning just in time to see a bunch of laughter emanate from a small crowd of boys leaving the bathroom. The large dark-skinned one sporting the red letterman jacket is punching his fist into his palm, earning him another loud, rowdy round of laughter from his cohorts.

_I sure hope _I _wasn't that obnoxious when _I _was in high school._

His eyes follow them out as they leave the restaurant, doubtful of if they had paid or not. He wonders if Mike had seen them; they'd talked about his innate dislike towards jocks a couple weeks ago and he's seen the barely-perceptible shiver that runs down Mike's back at the mere mention of them. He _did_ say that high school was an unpleasant time for him, after all.

Blaine finally makes it to the bathroom in record time, now that his right foot has gained more motor ability in the last few weeks. It seems that after several tweaks to his intensive therapy program, a few nerve endings had finally sprung to life again and Blaine could not be more thankful for his physiotherapist, Susan.

All thoughts about his foot disappear when he inches the restroom door open to see a figure crumpled on the floor by the stalls in the far end of the restroom.

* * *

><p><em>Kick, after kick, after kick, after kick.<em>

_The blood in his mouth makes his teeth stick._

* * *

><p>"Mike?" Blaine exclaims, recognizing the heap on the floor straight away. He rushes over to him as fast as his feet would allow and drops unceremoniously on his knees next to his friend, who is curled over and gasping. The crutch that once held him up falls to the floor with a loud clatter, but is otherwise forgotten.<p>

"Shit - Mike? Oh my- what _happened_?" Blaine asks, feeling stupid and thoroughly panicked. Mike looks a state. He's having trouble breathing and clutching his torso, trying to back himself further up against the wall but his feet only slip and slide against the linoleum floor. He's pushed himself into a corner and while he does not sob, the tears on his face stream openly. The hand not clutching his thorax is gingerly holding his nose, which seems to have been bleeding but for the most part has stopped doing so. He needs to know what's happened so he can decide whether or not to call the paramedics.

Kurt tries to breathe in but chokes halfway, a pained cry slipping from his lips. Blood too escapes his mouth and stains his pale chin. He resumes his gasping and still refuses to meet Blaine's eyes, looking pointedly at everything _but_ Blaine. Every time Blaine utters the word 'Mike', it feels like a little needle piercing in Kurt's throat. Oh, the irony that this would happen when he was with _Blaine_, of all people. Once again, it's Blaine to the rescue, and Kurt _hates_ that he is seeing him dizzy, injured and in tears. The throbbing pain in his gut isn't intense enough to distract him from that low feeling in his stomach that tells him that this is the beginning of an unfortunate unraveling.

Mike's lack of any real response prompts Blaine to try and examine some of the damage himself. His nose is an ugly purple colour under Mike's light pinch. He has an awful inkling that the letterman jackets had something to do with it.

Mike's whimpering high on his register and Blaine tries to wipe some of the tears off of his cheeks, only to be replaced a second later with a fresh wave. Mike unwraps the arm around his chest and indicates towards his ribs.

"What happened?" Blaine repeats, softer this time. His hands hold Mike firmly but soothingly, and Blaine can't help but sneak one up to cup his red, sore cheek. The steady tears underneath his touch still don't falter.

"...b-beat me up." Kurt groans, brokenly.

Blaine's eyes widen as he realises why Mike might have been clutching his chest all this time. There's another bell ringing in his head, far in the corners of his mind, screaming hazy recognition at the sound of Mike's voice. It's a nagging feeling that he has to ignore for now, to focus on more important matters at hand. His nimble hands immediately start on Mike's shirt buttons, but Mike's own lithe fingers grasp at his wrist, stilling him from doing anything else. The grip of his fingers tell Blaine a silent _no. _Mike's neck strains as he grits his teeth at the action- that alone must be causing his ribs some considerable pain.

Kurt may be a mess, but he's aware that if he lets Blaine take his shirt off, he'll also see the repulsive scars on his wrist. Now is no time to instigate any questions or any deep-rooted secrets.

"I just need to see your ribs, Mike. It's alright, I'm trained in first aid. I need to see how bad it is, so I can tell the medics."

Kurt also hates that Blaine is cooing at him, talking rationally and leveled and so damn professional. He doesn't dwell on that, though, because his high school nightmare has pretty much repeated itself just when he thought it was over. Ten minutes with the (now ex) jocks erased months of progressive therapy. Kurt is still as terrified as he'd been all those months ago as old cuts split open once again.

Mike's persistent wheezing and gasping is really beginning to concern Blaine. If he's in this much pain, he fears that the injury may have gone beyond a fractured rib or even a broken one. If Mike is having _this_ much trouble breathing, the possibility that the bone may have punctured a lung is very, very real- which complicates things _considerably,_ to say the least.

"Please," Blaine pleads, trying to catch those glasz eyes for even just a moment. They are wet and bright and agonized when they finally meet his. Mike has never looked younger. The frightened, despaired look on his face breaks Blaine's heart.

The tears have reduced somewhat as Mike breathes shakily, unsteadily as he nods imperceptibly, closing his eyes at the spinning in his head as he makes the movement. The fingers loosen their hold on his wrists just slightly, and Blaine takes that opportunity to undo the rest of the buttons of Mike's dress shirt.

_This certainly isn't how I imagined the first time I'd be undressing Mike, _Blaine thinks sadly.

When the last of the buttons slip away from their hold, Blaine holds his breath before finally pulling the shirt open. He tries to slip the shirt off of Mike's shoulders, but even in his pain, he makes it very clear to Blaine that his shirt is to stay on his shoulders. Blaine doesn't push; Mike must have his reasons. Besides, he can examine everything he needs to from this.

Blaine doesn't exhale when he sees the harsh red and magenta colouring of inflamed tissue on the side of Mike's body. He doesn't exhale when he sees the telltale blotchiness of a bad contusion beginning to pattern on his skin. He still doesn't exhale when he inspects the rest of the otherwise unmarred beauty of Kurt's bare chest.

He runs a light fingertip over where the lesion is darkest and Mike winces at the touching of the sensitive welt. The purpling of the area suggests some relatively bad internal bleeding, though nothing life-threatening. It doesn't look like a clean fracture, so Blaine doesn't reckon any lungs have been punctured, but he still doesn't want to risk shifting any bones. He tries to find his eyes again, but in vain.

Suddenly, Mike heaves. The action caused considerable impact on his torso and prompted a blood-curdling scream, cut off with another agonizing gagging noise. His eyes seem to be going in and out of focus and the hand that was clutching a broken-looking nose is now flat against his stomach.

"I think you're concussed," Blaine deduces, brows furrowing unhappily. "hey, _hey- _c'mon, relax. It's okay, it's okay."

The hand that was inspecting Mike's bruised body under his shirt returns to cup his cheek, his thumb brushing his tear-tracks. It was probably too affectionate a thing for friends to be doing, but Blaine had decided that Mike was hurt; damnit, and he would do anything in his power to make him feel even incrementally better.

Even if it did fuel his growing attraction to the boy.

He doesn't notice that Kurt's finally curbed his crying to gaze at Blaine, who was fumbling for his phone to call 911. He doesn't notice the burning embarrassment and humiliation of Blaine seeing him like this that partially fuelled Kurt's tears. He also doesn't notice the shift of planes in Kurt's dizzied, concussed head and sullied heart as he realises he's never needed Blaine more than he does now.

* * *

><p>It's been several hours. By the time they got to hospital, Mike was more attentive though still quite out of it. Though the tears had subsided, the pain had very much not, and Mike had been groaning in heart-wrenching affliction the entire ambulance ride over. Blaine, as a friend, had been told to sit in a waiting room while they went through some admin for Mike and sorted out his injuries.<p>

"_I'm a friend, I can fill out his paperwork-"_

"_N-no, it's okay. I'll do it; he doesn't know all my d-details."_

_A shaky hand from his uninjured side reaches out and takes the clipboard from the nurse's hands. Even whilst slightly concussed and lying propped up in a gurney, Mike still manages to shift and shows the both of them that he is very capable of writing with his right hand._

_Blaine bites his lip. "You sure, Mike? It's just your name and address and stuff-"_

"_It's fine, Blaine." Mike responds, rushed. "You- you have to go, you can just g-go home-"_

"_What, are you crazy? No, I'm staying ri-"_

"_Go home, Blaine," Mike says, unevenly but with conviction. His eyes dart away again and Blaine sighs in resignation, allowing the nurse to cart him off._

Blaine has almost nodded off in the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room when a nurse's feet steps into his line of sight. His slackened neck immediately snaps up to meet her eyes, but before he can inquire about Mike, she cuts in.

"You're Kurt Hummel's friend, yes?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I bet you're sick of my apologies on tardiness. I know I am.

boy, if this doesn't meet expectations, that would be em_barrassing._

woo-ee. yessir. feel free to chew me out about it.

also, i've set up some external sites, kids.

i'm **copperoxide** on tumblr and **c0pperoxide** on livejournal, if you're interested.

shit will be up there that will not be on here, so.. a heads up, really.

Thank you for having stuck with me thus far, I love you more than you know.


	10. part 10

**_A/N: _**I would hate me too, readers. Alas, life comes before fic. Expect updates to be slow, for now, but christmas break is just around the corner. If I make it out alive by then, we should hopefully have more frequent updates. No promises for now, but I assure you, I'm trying.

Thank you, once again, for putting up with my shoddy scheduling and still reading this fic. Your lovely, patient messages and reviews make me feel the best kind of guilt for never having time to write. You're all wonderful and my gratitude is endless. xoxo

* * *

><p>"<em>The 911 call from Breadstix. Minor rib fracture, mild concussion and nausea, fresh contusions all over?"<em>

_The description fits. That's definitely Mike._

"_You mean Mike Chang?"_

_The nurse gives him a puzzled look, looking back at her clipboard and reaffirming that, no, there is no Mike Chang at this hospital and that she saw him come in with a boy whose name was Kurt Hummel._

"_Brown hair, blue eyes, pale-faced skinny thing- are you sure _you _weren't hurt in the incident, honey?"_

That's how Blaine finds himself in front of a door on the second floor of St. Rita's medical center, facing a slotted plastic door card that read "116". The curtains of the small window of the door are drawn, as are the curtains of the actual windows to the room. The nurse had left him there several minutes ago, convinced that he is the man that came in with a boy called Kurt.

Everything about this "Kurt" seems to correspond with Mike. It's boggling Blaine out of his mind and he just can't seem to fit the pieces in his mind nor make any sense of what is going on. First the attack (which, for the most part, remains a question), then the injury, then all this identity confusion? It's overwhelming. He takes a deep breath and steps decisively away from the door, needing to regroup his muddled thoughts. He shifts his weight to lean on his crutch and raises his free hand to count the things that he knows on his fingers; a practice he used to do when he was confused as a child.

_One. My friend, Mike Chang, was beaten up in bathrooms of Breadstix this evening, for unknown reasons._

_Two. He has a rib injury and a concussion, and he threw up once in the ambulance. _

_Three. The hospital keeps calling him a different name, of which I have never heard of._

Hospitals mix names up all the time, right? It didn't matter as long as they got the right treatment. From what the nurse said, it sounded as if they were able to patch Mike up alright. He'll just tell Mike that some idiot had gotten his name mixed up with someone else's and they'll make the reparations necessary when Mike wakes up.

Convinced that nothing was amiss, Blaine finally turns the stainless steel handle of the suite door and carries himself into Mike's room. The lights are off but the fluorescent light from the corridor allows him to see his sleeping figure to the far left of the small room, tucked in and asleep on his uninjured side while his breathing is monitored on the contraption to his right. His breathing had been labored enough at Breadstix; he's glad that they've noticed how much trouble he'd been having.

A telltale lump of tape and gauze is under Mike's thin hospital gown, only just protecting his battered ribs. The shallow, frequent rise and fall of his thorax is hypnotic and quiet, the only sound in the room besides the steady beep of his breathing monitor. Blaine's footsteps seem to resonate as he takes tentative steps towards the bed, moving as quietly as he can to his friend's bedside.

Mike's face looks soft in the dim light. The bruises on his temple could almost pass for mere shadows as the light casts his face in drastic chiaroscuro. He is paler than usual, no doubt from having thrown up several times despite his injured ribs. Blaine winces as Mike's breathing stutters, emitting a quiet, pained choking sound before resuming its labored pattern. He sleeps on, unmoving in the gurney bed, and Blaine thinks he looks smaller than ever. The blanket provided by the hospital has slipped midway down his upper arm, so Blaine gently pulls it up over his shoulders and tucks him in as discreetly as he can. A hand almost brushes Mike's hair down, but he pulls away just in time, remembering the blunt impact of the concussion and instead places his hand on Mike's, which lies limply on the pillow, just below his jaw.

By watching this boy sleep, holding his hand while he is at his most vulnerable, Blaine knows he is giving himself an awfully open opportunity to be even more enamored by Mike.

Sometimes he can't believe he's twenty one- especially when he's asleep like this, looking younger than ever. His face is of porcelain, fragile and breakable. His brown lashes rest delicately on his fair cheeks, tainted unrightfully by darkly coloured contusions. Even in his drug-induced slumber, he looks like a veritable angel. Blaine knows perfectly well that Mike is not perfect- he is actually rather snarky when he wants to be and though he has many quiet, timid moments, he also has his rare windows of unrestrained attitude and a vibrancy that is completely unique to him. He is human as much as the next man, flawed and impatient and volatile, but here, in the quiet and in his repose, Mike is ethereal. In all this chaos, Blaine finds it within himself to fall a little further for him, uncaring of the implications his feelings bring, especially in a time as tenuous as this.

Internally, Blaine slaps himself for his sappiness. He can't help it; he grew up on 80s rom-coms and corny is practically a permanent part of him as a person. It doesn't matter anyhow; Mike can't hear his cheesy thoughts about him anyway.

He shifts his weight to bend over and places a chaste, barely-there kiss to Mike's forehead, indulging himself for just a moment.

The moment he pulls away, however, he sees something he hadn't before even in the poor lighting. Now changed into a hospital dressing gown, he notices the pale white of Kurt's usually sleeved arm. On the inside of his forearm is a thick raised line of flesh; a straight horizontal scar that looks far too neat to have been an accident.

* * *

><p>Of course he'd end up in hospital again. Of <em>course.<em>

It's so cliché that the very thought of it makes him want to roll his eyes out of his head.

It hurts to move, however, so he stays still for the most part.

There's a faint breathing noise somewhere beyond him. He cracks his eyes open, wincing internally as even the dim light is a little too much and sends a pang of pain up to his temples. His head feels woozy, the last ebbs of residual pain still lingering like a persistent nag in the back of his mind.

A figure sits on a chair as his eyes come to focus. The figure sits slumped, arms folded and crossed against its chest with its head ducked and falling forward.

He doesn't stay awake for long. In the last few fleeting moments of consciousness, he registers the silhouette of unruly curls upon the figure's head. It's not his dad.

A hand clapping quite abruptly on his shoulder wakes Blaine, causing him to jump in his seat. The hand is large; the clap is assertive. His head is hazy from sleep and his back aches from sleeping in a chair, but he strains around to see who the owner of the hand is.

A man- average stature, on the heavy side, wearing a worn baseball cap and what seem to be lumberjack clothing- stands imposingly behind him. The light from behind him hides most of his face in the shadows, but Blaine doesn't miss the jerk of his thumb, urging Blaine outside in silence. He's confused, but with one final glance at the sleeping figure of Mike, he takes his crutch that had been leaning on his side and follows the older man out of the room. The man stands by the door of Mike's room, gently slotting the door closed after Blaine.

Back under the fluorescence of hospital lighting, Blaine can clearly see the features of the man's face. Hard lines are etched into his forehead and brow and his mouth is set in a tentative frown. His crossed arms and widened leg stance speaks volumes; and Blaine has an awful inkling as to who this man might be.

"You wanna tell me who the _hell_ you are?"

* * *

><p>Parents have always liked Blaine. It was an intrinsic quality- he simply <em>exuded <em>'nice kid' and radiated positive energy. In high school, his friends' mothers were always especially welcoming to him and he'd been invited back on more than one occasion. They always liked Blaine.

This man, however, may be the exception to a long line of amicable parent relationships.

His hand instinctively rises to grip at the hair at the base of his neck, awkwardly tilting his head and trying desperately to ignore the piercing glare of this man's green eyes. It's a ferocity he feels he might have felt before- fleetingly, once or twice.

"I'm... I'm Blaine Anderson." he swallows his suddenly dry throat. "...sir." he adds, for good measure.

"Yeah? You go to McKinley?"

Blaine's a little taken aback. Surely, he must look older than eighteen now that he's in his early twenties? That's what the scruff is for, isn't it? It's far from a misguided teenage attempt at a beard, that's for sure.

"Um, I- no...?"

"Then how'd you meet my son?" he asks, accusation dripping from every word. Blaine can feel himself beginning to perspire, fumbling for words and so, _so _confused.

"I... he gave me a ride home, once, after a gig, and I see him Friday night at that live music bar on west-"

"A _bar?_" the man questions, voice heightening. "_Friday_ nights?"

Blaine panics.

"I promise, sir, I didn't do anything to Mike. I- we- I invited him to dinner tonight, after the show, and he went to the restroom and- and I don't know, these _guys_ just came in and beat him up, in letterman jackets- I think they were in high school? B-but he was in pain, so I called an ambulance, and I really, really don't know why anyone would do this to him, because he doesn't even know anyone in high school, but I'm really, really sorry that this happened and that I couldn't stop it, but I just didn't _know_ and I really, really care about Mike and I'm so, so glad he's not seriously injured- but he's still _injured _and that's _awful,_ like _really _awful, and I'm so sorry, so, so, sorry-"

Blaine rambles, utterly unfiltered and barely coherent. The sweat increases on his brow as the man's face grows more and more worrying. It's a terrifying cross between confusion and outrage. His palm is damp on the crutch handle as he grips around it nervously, watching the man's face twist into a look that one could only equate to "what the fuck".

The man raises his hand, prompting Blaine to shut his mouth immediately as he lets him interrupt his babbling.

"-Who are you talking about, kid?"

"Uh- um, M-Mike...?" he says, pointing his thumb towards the room where Mike lay, confusion starting frustratingly afresh.

The older man gives him a bewildered look, as if Blaine was as dull as dishwater.

"That in there is my son, Kurt. _Kurt._"

"...I don't- I don't understa-"

"-I think you're mistaken."

"Burt, honey, the doctors want to talk to us."

A woman approaches the man (whose name is apparently Burt) and cuts their conversation short. She looks as worn out as Burt does.

"Go home, kid."

"S-Sir, please- I'm his friend, I swear."

Burt eyes Blaine's open face. There are lines under his eyes and he seems to have been sticking it out here for a while. He sees nothing but blatant but genuine confusion and concern in this stranger.

He sighs. He indicates towards the plastic seats just across the hall and tells him he'll be back.

Blaine obliges.

Before long, his eyes are once again drooping in exhaustion. It is the middle of the night, after all, and he'd spent a fair bit of it sorting out the issue with Mike.

Or Kurt.

He wasn't so sure any more.

Morpheus takes hold of him within minutes, slowly urging him into a sleep full of nameless blue eyes. The nap is short, however, as the same large hand shakes him awake in what seems to have been a second after he'd fallen asleep. He would be irritated if not for how damn scared he was of the man.

He looks a little less grieved than before, but the relief was barely noticeable through the fierceness of his gaze on Blaine right now.

"Alright," he says, his tone assertive. "Tell me how you met Kurt."

"...Kurt?"

"The boy in there. The boy who's room you were in. Tell me how you met him."

Blaine's tongue is immobilized as this man keeps repeatedly telling him that his friend Mike is not his friend 'Mike' at all.

"He told me his name was Mike. Mike Chang." Blaine says, weakly.

Burt's hard eyes stay trained on him, searching.

"Alright. Tell me how you met Mike. Then tell me what the hell happened tonight."

And so he does.


	11. part 11

**A/N:** I can't believe I've left this for a year.

I can't believe people are still _reading it._

I also can't adequately express how sorry I am if I've caused any disappointment at this story's absence.

I seriously thought about abandoning this- I never had the guts to declare anything definite, really. I'd started to hate it on the basis of one thing, and I suppose the complications in my personal life kept me away from it as well. Either way, I opened it on a whim the other day and I realised how it would be so, so stupid of me to leave this unfinished. I'd put so much work into it at the start- the notion of it all being for naught was ridiculous. I know this story isn't perfectly written, it's got little to no structure, and perhaps not even convincing writing- but hell, everyone's got to start somewhere. I was being too hard on myself and that's what killed this story. I need to start accepting the fact that not everything I write is going to be the bee's knee's and that I'll never stop cringing when I read my own stuff, but at least I'm still _trying,_ despite it all. I'm just a kid, for heaven's sake.

So here, I'm declaring it: I'm going to finish this.

As for the updating schedule- I wouldn't hold my breath for the next chapter. It's going to be arbitrary as hell, that's for sure. School work and life always comes first, so this fic is a filler for all the cracks I do find in my spare time. I'm in the last legs of high school though, so spare time is like scarce.

and lastly, let me just state: I'm doing this for me, first and foremost. Sounds selfish, but I never went out there with the intent of writing to garner an audience. I wanted to write because I wanted these stories to simply exist. The fact that anyone bothered to read any of my work is still astounding to me and I'm so, so grateful for your readership, but the pressure of satisfying an audience kind of drove me away from writing after a while. It kind of lost its joy when there was duty behind it. I'm sorry to be so reckless with this, but I suppose that's just how I'm wired as a writer.

That's all, I guess. If you're still around, you have my **heart**, dear reader. 3 If you're not, ah well, I don't blame you- I'd ditch a story if the writer was as bad as keeping to a schedule as I was.

* * *

><p>He still remembers his dad's heartbroken expression when they first took him here after the incident. He hates that he's doing this to him. His then fractured elbow and ribs didn't hurt nearly as much.<p>

The look on his face when he brought Kurt to his first therapy session was incrementally better, but the fact that he knew that Kurt wasn't alright was always going to weigh down his smile.

He knows his dad still feels guilty about the incident. He also knows he was unfair to him- his father may not have always been comfortably with his orientation, but he damn well tries.

That argument had been a one off mistake, but it still resonates in his mind. His dad was only trying to tell him how much harder life would be for him as a gay man. He may have worded it badly, but the essence is that he's worried for him and that he _cares_. He was stressed and his temper was short that night -he's only human. _He's only human._

It doesn't matter that he momentarily felt hate towards his only living parent. No- not hate, _never_ hate- he was just hurt. He was hurt by the man who is his hero, and it just happened at an unfortunate time and hence fueled the suicide attempt.

He knows his dad's here right now, though. He heard his voice and Carole's from across the room when he was in a middleground state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. It was a sound comforting enough to lull him back into a doze, knowing that he was safe because his Dad is there.

He dreads waking up and having to face that heartbroken expression once again. In his half-conscious state, Kurt promises himself to prevent that look from appearing on his father's aging face to his greatest capabilities.

* * *

><p>The statistic for suicides among gay teens has been skyrocketing as of recent, and Burt Hummel is determined to stop his son from becoming part of that number. He'd messed up once by brushing off the bullying; he knows. The results were near fatal. He can't afford to do so again; he might lose the one person that he knows he loves the most.<p>

* * *

><p>Blaine is finally alone again in the early hours of morn while Burt and Carole grab some food. He's exhausted from staying awake for more than twenty four hours and is running low on fuel. He thinks he might slip home after they return to catch up on sleep and make himself a quick meal.<p>

Before he does, however, he slips in to Kurt Hummel's private ward. He reads the nameplate at the foot of Kurt's bed and confirms that this man- this _boy- _is indeed, not Mike Chang.

Kurt Hummel has just turned eighteen. Five months ago, when he was seventeen and still in highschool, he suffered a traumatic experience with bullies and attempted suicide in his bathroom, which he was luckily unable to follow through with. He has since then been going to therapy to deal with the incident. Tonight was a relapse into the bullying he'd gone through in high school and it was severe enough that it, once again, resulted in bodily harm.

There was just so much he didn't _know_. It was information overload and Blaine's poor, tired head wasn't sure if it could process it all. Kurt- or as he was before, 'Mike'- had come off so extraordinarily _functional_ and dare he say it... normal. He was cute, charming and a little on the shy side. Careful, calculated, but not cold. When they started hanging out, Blaine found that he was funny. Whoever said that sarcasm was the lowest form of comedy clearly didn't know what they were talking about because 'Mike' was hilarious. And sweet. And attentive. And a million other things Blaine could name but it's still a stretch to process that 'Mike' was never even 'Mike' at all. Kurt had lied to him about everything.

Who _is_ this Kurt kid? Does Blaine even know who he was at all? Was there even a part of Kurt in 'Mike' to begin with?

They hadn't known each other for long, only about a little over a month. They may have hit it off, but the friendship was still largely casual. Blaine may have also been nursing budding feelings towards Kurt, but it wasn't anything that he couldn't swallow down should it come to that. And besides, weren't they feelings for_ 'Mike'_? It frightened him to know there was so much enigma and mystery surrounding what he had assumed was a cute guy he met at a bar. It was already a bit of stretch that he was still in college, and all of a sudden, he's dealing with a seventeen-year-old _minor _with a tragic past and this makes things so very, very complicated. And Blaine is so very, very tired. His mind is a mess and he can't make sense of anything going on around him, so he quietly slips out and bids his goodbye to Burt. He catches a cab and at a grueling 5:30 AM, he finally crashes at home, casting his crutch carelessly to the side and flopping into bed. He's asleep before he even hits the sheets.

* * *

><p>"<em>Burt! Burt, wake up, I think he's.. he's awake."<em>

Kurt blinks heavily at the sensation of light flooding into his eyes, feeling as if it'd been a decade since he last opened them. Crusted with sleep and feeling sore, his surroundings slowly register and come into focus. He remembers from the last time he was conscious that someone had been next to him... but he knows it wasn't his dad.

He tries to raise his stiff back from the bed but groans when he feels a rush of pain from the right side of his ribs. He quickly falls back onto his pillow, but the motion is too quick and makes him lurch. His instincts fight the searing sensation in his side when he leans over the bed to heave, only to thankfully find a large plastic puke bucket being held up to his face while he empties his stomach. The convulsions in his stomach make his ribs throb, but there's nothing he can do about it. After making sure nothing more is coming out, Carole helps him wipe his mouth and raises a cup of water to his lips. He tries to smile thankfully at her, but all he manages is a lopsided lip raise as he simultaneously rinses and downs a couple sips. His head is still disoriented and a little sore, but he gathers enough to recall where he is and why he's there.

"Morning honey," Carole murmurs, brushing his hair as she smiles down sadly at him. He knows it's a lost cause, so he doesn't reprimand her. "how are you feeling?"

"Awful." he croaks, slipping his eyes shut when vision becomes too much for his aching head.

He feels a hand slip into his and he knows the firm grip and callouses well; his dad is right here next to him. He doesn't have to say anything; his dad's never been a man of many words, anyway, but his simple presence is enough to put Kurt at ease. He gives the warm, comforting hand a weak squeeze and manages a small smile, acknowledging his father's presence.

"Hi dad."

"Hey, kiddo."

"I'm just gonna just sleep for a while longer... still a little..." he mumbles, already slipping back into unconsciousness.

"You rest up, kid. We're not going anywhere."

* * *

><p>It's two in the afternoon on a cloudy saturday when Blaine wakes up. Despite having slept half the day away, he still feels under rested in that strange way that you do when you sleep for more than ten hours. He's felt more alive with only four hours of sleep under his belt and nothing but red bull fueling his veins, the way he used to be when he and his friends would work into the night setting up the roots of Educare. His sleep patterns are a weird mechanism, but he ignores that and forces himself out of bed anyway.<p>

Blaine shuffles lazily around his kitchen, unaided by the crutch that lays abandoned by his sofa. He makes coffee on autopilot before slumping onto the kitchen island's cool marble. His back is hunched as he sits on the tall stool, nursing a steaming, sugarless mug in his hands and trying to clear the haze in his mind.

The apartment is empty and soundless save for the occasional loud sip from Blaine. He sits in a mindless stupor before finally recounting last night's events.

Burt had been understanding throughout Blaine's explication of how he came to know 'Mike'. His initial hostility was warranted; Blaine couldn't blame the man for being concerned like a good father should be. They both had a multitude of questions to ask Kurt- it seems as if he'd been doing a lot of lying. That will have to wait, though, because Kurt is injured and health comes first.

"_I came home one day to see him with a bandage around one wrist; both arms curled around himself. I called 911 as soon as I could. If I'd gotten there even just five, ten minutes sooner, I'd have seen the blood and pills on the bathroom floor. He told me he almost did, almost swallowed them all, but that they're gone now and that he was sorry. He was _sorry,_ can you believe it? After all the stuff I'd done, he had the nerve to apologize to _me._ I knew then I'd fucked up. None of the injuries were too bad, just minor fractures, thank God. But the wrist... we needed stitches for that. Six of 'em, ugly black things that Kurt hated. By the time we'd gotten to hospital, that bandage was soaked in red and Kurt was lightheaded and dizzy."_

Of everything Burt had said last night, however, this rings loud and unwavering in Blaine's ears:

"_He almost tried to kill himself because he was bullied. My _son_ was bullied because he was gay."_

Because he was gay.

It sends a chill down his spine whenever he thinks about it. All he had to deal with was a broken guitar and a shiner, and after that, they'd only ever called him 'fag' every so often. It wasn't all that bad- he got out of high school alive, didn't he?

But Kurt? Kurt's been in hospital _twice_ because of the bullying, and the second time happened _after_ he'd graduated high school. He'd also tried to take his own life.

A click, a faint whirr and the sound of moving cogs begin in the sleep-hazed mind of Blaine Anderson, one-time suicide hotline volunteer and charity worker.

_He remembers._

He promptly trips on the corner of the kitchen island trying to get back to his crutch, catching himself just in time to keep hobbling. He has to get to the hospital, _now._

* * *

><p>"...Room 116? I think they- yup, they cleared it out this afternoon. The patient left a little before noon; nothing major." the nurse had told him.<p>

The hospital's confidentiality policy prevented him from getting any contact details or any addresses from the system. Blaine was politely told to leave as his relations to the patient were not sufficient and were dubious (what sort of close friend didn't know where their friend lived?)

However, Blaine wasn't totally cut off- he still had the number of one "Mike Chang" on his phone.

The very idea of calling Kurt- now that he had put two and two together- was terrifying.

The medium of telecommunication suddenly had new meaning.

Blaine saved his life over the phone once, he knew this now, and it felt like simply _calling_ him just wouldn't do. He had so many questions, but what could he even say? _Hey, so it turns out, I was the dude who stopped you from committing over the phone a couple months ago?_

A new thought dawns on Blaine's flustered mind.

_...Did Kurt know who I was?_


	12. part 12

**A/N: **it was astounding to still receive feedback from those of you who had stuck by this story. Thank you for your continued readership and support, you beautiful readers. It brings me unspeakable joy. All my love, xoxo

* * *

><p>Back in the safe walls of his home, Kurt knows his father has been itching to say something.<p>

He was discharged earlier today. His rib still hurt a bit when he moved, and his nose was a horrible shade of purple, but otherwise he wasn't incapacitated to any other extent. The ride back home was quiet, Kurt reluctant to respond too much to his parents' worrying, still in a daze from the painkillers. Before he knew it, he found himself tucked back into his own bed and pajamas. The pills helped him sleep soundly.

His dad came in later that night, his baseball cap held tight in his hand and a cup of Kurt's favorite ginger tea in the other. He looks cautious and tentative, making Kurt feel unsettled even in his sleepy haze.

"Hey bud," his dad says, sitting down on the edge of his mattress. "how are you feeling?"

"Better." Kurt says, quiet and rusty-sounding. He takes a sip of tea and relishes the warmth spreading in his chest.

His dad seems to settle in his seat, telling Kurt that he was probably in for the long haul. He braced himself for the flurry of questions his father would no doubt have about his second hospitalization in a year.

"Who's Blaine?"

The air leaves his lungs in a rush. He hadn't expected this.

"B-Blaine?"

"There was a man I didn't know asleep in the chair next to you when we got here. Says he was with you when you got beat up, brought you in, and that your name's Mike." he replies, voice even and calm in that dangerous inquisitive tone. His eyes bore into Kurt's almost identical blue eyes, relentless and insistent. Kurt swallows thickly in his throat.

"He- he's... a friend." Kurt supplies, lamely.

"He told me he was twenty-three, Kurt. A little old for highschool, don'tcha think?"

Kurt looks at his lap, not entirely sure where to go with this. He doesn't know how much his father knows, how much Blaine has told him. He doesn't want to tell him why he recognized his voice because his father didn't know about the suicide hotline.

His father doesn't look like he's going to let up. Kurt may be injured, tired, and exhausted, but the question of this stranger had to be dealt with. Kurt is thankful that the headaches from the concussions had largely left him, leaving him to think clearly about how to tell his father about this rather absurd situation.

He decides to cut to the chase. He breathes deep and tells his father about dialing 1-800-SOS moments before he was about to swallow those pills.

* * *

><p>Burt couldn't believe what he was hearing.<p>

He couldn't believe who Blaine was.

He couldn't believe that Kurt had been able to seek him out, intentional or not.

He couldn't believe that the fine line between Kurt's life and his death was at the hands of a stuttering, fuzzy-headed young man.

"...Does this Blaine kid know who you are?" he asks, a long pause after Kurt finishes explaining the story.

Kurt bites his lip and shakes his head.

"That explains 'Mike Chang'."

He flushes, embarrassed. Not his brightest moment.

"He's amazing, dad." Kurt mumbles. "Once I realized who he was- I couldn't help it. He was so nice, and so kind, but I had to lie. I couldn't bear it if- if he thought I was just another hopeless kid."

Burt hesitates to say so, but he does anyway. "...he knows you're not Mike Chang, Kurt."

Kurt's eyes, large and doe-like and more like Elizabeth's than ever, look at him sadly, resignedly. As if he understood the inevitability of all of this unraveling.

"I figured. You must have set things straight with him."

"I did. He was a stranger and you were unconscious. Naturally, I jumped on him."

Kurt sighs, hands boneless in his lap.

"...Does he hate me? For lying, for everything?"

Almost as if on cue, his phone rings loudly on his nightstand. His dad reaches over to get it for him, glancing at the caller ID on the screen. A less-tired, less-frazzled version of the man he met last night appears under the words "Blaine Anderson".

Kurt's eyes are fearful, but Burt shows him the phone anyway. He takes it with careful, uncertain hands, looking at Burt for guidance.

Burt nods.

Kurt picks up.

* * *

><p>"Hello?" Kurt rasps down the line. He's not aware of it, but his hands are shaking, ever so slightly.<p>

"-Mike?"

He winces at the name, not entirely sure how to go on.

"-uh, I mean... K-Kurt, now, I guess...?"

He breathes, slightly relieved, before his mind steels him for the worst. He knows. He _knows. _His heart pounds in his throat, loud thumps rushing in his ears and making his tongue feel thick.

"H-Hi, Blaine."

"Hi."

Blaine sounds breathless on the other end, not speaking too cogently himself.

"How- how are you doing? I wanted to, um, come by the hospital, but they told me you'd gone, and uh, I didn't really have any other way to contact you besides- besides the phone."

"I'm doing o-"

"-oh god did I wake you up? Of course, you must have been resting, I'm so sorry-"

"-n-no, I wasn't, it- it's okay."

This had never happened between 'Mike' and Blaine. There were no jaunty, overlapped sentences, awkward conversation, or stuttering when they talked. Incoherence seemed to be reserved exclusively for Kurt and Blaine.

"Are... you okay?"

He hates how loaded that question sounds. Kurt can feel the caution behind his words, not referring to this incident alone. Now that he knows everything- his past, his pain, his shame- the question is heavy. It refers to Kurt's entire being.

_Please don't pity me._

"My head.. hurts, a little, and so do my ribs, but yeah, i'm... okay." he says, trying his best to sound light.

"That's good." Blaine says, sounding genuinely relieved. "that's good to hear."

Silence rings louder than gongs down the line.

Blaine breaks the quiet.

"...I think we have some things to talk about, Kurt."

Kurt closes his eyes, breathing out deeply to fight that thrum of horrible dread rising in his gut.

"Do you think I could come over?"

Kurt looks at his father, silently asking with his eyes. Burt wordlessly nods in assent.

"Y-Yeah, okay."

* * *

><p>Kurt can't sleep after the phone call.<p>

His father had taken his iphone out of his cold hands, telling him to get a bit of rest before Blaine gets here.

He thinks of all the horrible ways this conversation could go.

Blaine getting angry.

Blaine getting weirded out.

Blaine treating him as a fragile, porcelain doll.

Blaine telling him he never wants to be associated with him again.

He can't think of any instance where this conversation would go well. He had lied and there was no excuse for it other than cowardly fear.

Their friendship had been nice though, hadn't it? They had fun, didn't they? It wasn't all bad. It was lovely while it had lasted. Kurt is grateful for that, at the very least.

He sinks into his bed in resignation. Whatever happens, it had been worthwhile. He closes his eyes, wide awake, and braces himself for the worst.

Blaine is let in by a neutral-looking Burt Hummel. It took him a while to find the address as instructed by Kurt- _Kurt_, not Mike- but he'd found it eventually.

"He's upstairs, first door to the left."

Blaine nods, not knowing what to say, but as it turns out, Burt understands.

"Be kind to him," Burt tells him, a firm hand on his arm. "no matter what you say." His eyes are serious, frightening, protective. He nods, intimidated, and Burt lets go of his arm.

Upstairs, a white door to his left is slightly ajar. Even in the late afternoon of the day, the room is dark- the curtains must be drawn. He walks in quietly, crutch making a dull thump against the beige carpet.

Inside the immaculately decorated room, a figure lays recumbent on a plush mahogany bed. His eyes are closed but his breathing is metered, even, and shallow.

He senses Blaine's presence and his eyes jerk open. A frightened, dazzling azure immediately lands on Blaine and he feels his being seize up under the attention. His mouth reacts before his mind has time to.

"Hi, Kurt."

* * *

><p>Blaine approaches Kurt like one would approach a wounded animal. Kurt feels the hot lurch of sadness behind his eyes when he realizes Blaine now sees him as much. Still, he bears down and forces himself to look at Blaine determinedly.<p>

"Can I sit?"

Kurt nods, eyes unwavering even if his tongue isn't co-operating.

Blaine sits gingerly at the edge of the bed, lowering himself slowly, and Kurt snaps.

"I'm not going to break, you don't have to act like I'm about to shatter at any moment."

Blaine looks up, surprised, and Kurt is a little shocked at his bold words.

"S-Sorry. I, um, won't."

This is ridiculous. Kurt has been lying to Blaine all this time and _Blaine_ is apologizing first.

They sit in a mutual, strained silence for a while. Kurt hates what this has become.

"What did you want to talk about?" Kurt says, voice unconvincing, unable to wince at how stupid the question sounds. What _haven't_ they got to talk about?

Blaine is breathing a little erratically. Kurt notices his tired eyes, his un-gelled hair, his crumpled clothing. It strikes him that Blaine might have been really worried about him.

"...I put two and two together."

Blaine looks at him now, and holds his stare with an intensity as fierce as his own.

"You're the same Kurt that called me on that 1-800-SOS hotline all those months ago."

"I am," Kurt says, without missing a beat.

"You're not Mike Chang at all."

"No, I'm not."

Blaine nods along, and Kurt can virtually see his thoughts rushing past his eyes at a mile a minute as his eyebrows knit in thought. Kurt is a bundle of nerves on the inside, but he's not going to let Blaine see that. Can't let him see how vulnerable he is right now.

"Can I know... how you found me? Did you try to find me, or..?"

"No, I... was coming home from the therapist's one evening, and I heard music come out of that bar on west street. I slipped inside on impulse, because I heard music playing, and then when you spoke to the audience I just- I just knew."

Now that the words are in the air, Kurt wishes he could bite them back. The story sounds ridiculous, Blaine will never believe him-

"when you- when you picked me up, that first time," Blaine asks, a timid little smile on his face. "was that... planned, then?"

"No! no, I mean- that was just a coincidence. I swear." Kurt bumbles, flushing red, because _embarrassing._

Blaine chuckles then, a lovely, warm, rumbly little thing, and the tension palpably diffuses between them. Regardless of label, name, or history, they're just _them_ now.

"...I didn't intend for anything to happen, I promise." Kurt admits. "I just wanted to... thank you, really."

Blaine's gaze feels like it's wrapping Kurt in it, enveloping it in that sort of thorough way and it sends tingles down to Kurt's fingertips. He scoots closer on the bed, more comfortable now, and listens with rapt attention.

"You did save my life, you know." Kurt dares to smile at him, not missing the way Blaine's brows twitch at the gesture. "I felt some sort of gratitude I had to express."

Blaine is shaking his head, but Kurt shushes him. In a brave moment, he raises his finger and places it on his agape lips, effectively stopping him mid-syllable. His lips are soft, yielding easily under the press of Kurt's finger, both pulses stuttering at the sudden contact.

Blaine raises a slow hand to the finger at his lips and brings it down to the sheets below them. His hand slips easily into Kurt's, and neither deign to move, so their hands stay locked between them.

Kurt swallows audibly at the contact, but the brave streak continues. He pushes on.

"Don't- don't tell me it wasn't a big deal, Blaine. Because it was, you have no idea-" he closes his eyes as the memory floods his senses. He doesn't feel quite brave enough to say all of this with hazel eyes seeking his own. He can feel his brows knitted tightly as he fights to say what he has to say.

"...you have no idea, how important you are to me. You have no idea that after that phone call, I couldn't stop thinking about the man who poured his soul out to me and pulled me from the edge of that cliff. You have no idea how much strength you gave me, or how much you changed my life. I could have died if not for you. I would have hurt so many people. I was so _lonely_, I would have done the stupidest thing in my life, god- I didn't know, I didn't know-"

The grip on his hand gets much tighter all of a sudden, and he opens his eyes to see Blaine's hand squeezing more insistently against his own. He still doesn't quite have the courage to look Blaine in the eyes yet, afraid of what he'll see in the amber.

"I don't know how to repay you, how I'm ever going to repay you. I couldn't resist getting close to you when I found you because you changed me forever, Blaine, and I know I'm not your anything, but you just have to know how- how much you mean to me."

Kurt licks his lips. His eyes are wet, he knows this, but he is almost finished.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, that I deceived you, but I wasn't prepared to let you know who I was. I didn't think I could stand it if- if you saw me, and all you felt was pity. I didn't want to be pitied by you, didn't want to look like some d-dumb kid, not when you were so admirable, and _strong._ I understand if you don't want to stay in touch, but that's okay, I just- I just want you to know how thankful I am for you. That's all."

Kurt looks up, finished with his speech, to finally gauge Blaine's reaction. The gesture seems to snap Blaine out of some spell and he hurriedly lets go of Kurt's hand to wipe at his wet eyes.

"Kurt, I don't know what to say," he says, voice a little hoarse as he gives Kurt a beautiful, watery smile. "I'm so moved."

Kurt offers a smile in return, but Blaine unceremoniously throws his arms around Kurt, who yelps because _ribs,_ and Blaine quickly apologizes and settles for a much less crushing hug. His strong arms encircle Kurt, cradling him in a cocoon of warmth. His face presses closely into Kurt's neck- a full bodied, sincere hug that said many things Blaine could not articulate himself. Kurt's heart beats like a hummingbird's as the close proximity of Blaine sends his head spinning as his world becomes Blaine's comforting scent, the snug press of his body, and the tickling of Blaine's dark hair. He closes his eyes and lets himself be held, relaxing into Blaine's touch.

"But you're wrong," Blaine mumbles into the crook of his neck. "You're _not_ not my anything."

He pulls back, and Kurt almost humiliatingly follows the heat of his body. Blaine cups his cheeks with his broad hands and Kurt almost bites his tongue at the shockingly affectionate gesture.

"I couldn't stay at the hotline after your call," Blaine admits. His voice is small, raw-sounding.

"your call- it hit so close to home -I couldn't handle it. I felt pathetic, and selfish, and weak, but I had to leave. I was so shaken by your call, I hadn't realised I wasn't in a state to be doing something as delicate as that."

"It doesn't matter. You still fight for all the right things." Kurt says, hands holding Blaine's where they are on his face.

"I try to."

"You got shot trying. Give yourself some credit." Kurt admonishes lightly, teasing Blaine for his perpetual modesty. They giggle between themselves, breathing little breaths of air against each others' faces in their close proximity. The quiet settles once again, enveloping them both in the pregnant moment.

"You're a good man, Blaine."

The sincerity in Kurt's eyes makes the blood surge in Blaine's veins. The earnest, unbridled admiration and gratitude of those beautiful orbs enchant him, carrying him under a spell, saturating him with it in every inch of his being. He understands now the magnitude of his call with Kurt- sometimes, when a person is at their lowest, it is enough to simply know that someone is listening, that someone is _there._ This beautiful boy is laying his heart out on the line before his very eyes, an unfiltered act of trust, and it's the least he can do to make himself equally vulnerable. It wills in him the courage to do the only thing he can think of at a moment like this.

He closes the gap and swiftly places a gentle kiss on lips he'd been wishing to kiss for weeks.


	13. part 13

Something in Kurt's heart stutters before it takes flight. The warm press of lips against his own, _Blaine's_ lips against his own, makes his chest palpitate into a frenzy as his mind fails to catch up to the immensity of the situation.

Too soon, those lips leave his, and he's left with the ghost of that sweet, dry pressure lingering on his agape lips.

"I don't care if you're Mike Chang, or Kurt Hummel, or whatever," Blaine breathes. "You amaze _me,_ Kurt, and I think you're much stronger than you think. I'm glad I met you, I'm glad you're alive, and if you'd let me, I'd really, really like to take you on a date."

Blaine was ready for the shocked look on Kurt's face, but his body is thrumming with adrenalin and his bravery. Kurt put his heart on the line for him, and he wants to do the same.

"I think... I think I'm having a stroke."

Kurt says yes.

Burt had been apprehensive, a little aghast that his intention at fixing the situation between two had led to his eighteen-year-old son going out on a date with a man much older than him. He concedes, however, to the bright, nervous eyes of his blushing son who stutters as he asks for permission to go. The boy throws his arms around him following his grudging affirmation.

Blaine, however, remains the bumbling young man when he tries to reassure him that his intentions are purely innocent and that he'll have him back by a reasonable hour. Burt watches on, amusedly, wondering if either are aware that Kurt is a legal adult. Either way, he's touched that both were so determined at getting his blessing.

They go to dinner and a movie after Blaine's gig on a friday. Kurt sits at his now customary little round table just to the right of the stage, happily watching Blaine do what he does best. When Blaine finishes his set, he hobbles over with a nervous-looking grin, fiddling with his guitar case strap over his shoulder.

"You look tense." Kurt notes, finishing off the rest of his soda.

Blaine laughs, haltingly. "I guess I'm nervous about our first date."

Outside, it's chilly, but Kurt can't feel the cold turning his grinning cheeks a flushed red. Feeling brave, Kurt pulls Blaine's hand that has a death grip on his strap off and holds on to his clammy hand, slipping them easily together. Blaine looks surprised, but Kurt takes his boldness in stride and simply smiles at him, almost smugly. They walk on, Blaine stiffly with his crutch and Kurt feigning nonchalance, until Kurt stops him.

"Ow, Blaine."

Blaine looks at him questioningly, a little alarmed at the laughing grimace on Kurt's face, before he realizes that he's positively crushing Kurt's hand in his own. He quickly releases his vice-like grip, making to utter a stumbling apology, but Kurt just slips his hand back in his, jiggling for good measure and loosely cupping his hand.

Blaine feels his face burn, wondering when on earth he reverted back to his thirteen year old self. He's dated people before, but he's never been so nervous about it. Kurt is an entirely new realm.

"Relax," Kurt chides, nudging him with his elbow. "it's just me."

"When did you get so composed?" he laughs.

"Excuse you," Kurt scoffs. "I'm _always_ composed."

They both know he's not, but it goes unsaid. It's in the past now.

Eventually, Blaine stops being so awkward and relaxes into it. He'd just been so anxious about doing this _right._ That, and he was admittedly quite frightened of Burt. He seemed to be quite protective of his son, in an albeit loving way, but it certainly made Blaine nervous.

Kurt is a changed man. _Boy_, Blaine thinks, but semantics don't matter. Kurt may be eighteen but he carries himself like he's thirty. He was vaguely believable at 21, but the Kurt that's on his arm meets his eyes, takes his hand, and walks in strides. A new playfulness shines in his eyes and while Blaine found his initial shyness endearing, it doesn't hold a candle to Kurt on a good day like today.

They don't go to Breadstix- Kurt won't be going within a mile of that place for a while yet. Instead, they go to Amoretto's Little Italy, a small, new establishment closer to downtown Lima. It's a small restaurant, but it's intimate and authentic. They sit close at a little circular table with warm false firelight washing over them in a soft glow.

Dinner is lovely and conversation flows, but he movie is spent feeling extremely conscious of the person next to them. Blaine is brave and twines his hand with Kurt's. Kurt is even braver and kisses Blaine on the jaw. The movie is soon forgotten as warmth blooms on Blaine's jaw where Kurt has kissed it, ebbing with the soft touch of Kurt's lips. He turns and watches the moving lights dance on the boy's face, dim in the dark but eyes bright as ever.

In the spirit of bravery, they both lean in. The movie is soon forgotten.

In another universe, where Kurt did not chance a call and where Blaine did not get shot, two entities lead entirely different lives. Or rather, one does not live one any longer, and the other is living life to its fullest degree. They exist in the extremes. Burt arranges a funeral while Blaine arranges a fundraiser. The two did not cross paths, nor will they ever do so. They live in oblivion of each other's existence.

The world works in hydraulic amplification. A tilt translates into an earthquake, a slight adjustment translates into an infinite ripple effect. A thread of commonality encircles us all and we are grateful for the experiences we have because the chances of that experience happening is minute beyond imagination. It is not fate- fate is an excuse for the lazy who do not seek. No, this is mere chance- pure coincidence, pure luck, pure arbitrary reality.

Kurt was not destined to meet Blaine. Blaine was not destined to save Kurt. The two were not made for each other, and fate did not pull them to each other. Their trajectories were not set in stone. They are simply two separate beings who happened to co-exist in the same time and space- a tiny chance as it is, with a hundred billion souls having previously inhabited this earth. The factor here is not fate, or serendipity, or any other otherworldly explanation for the things that happen in our lives. The factor here is human kindness.

A boy in need reaches; a stranger's hand steadies him. An act of kindness. Small, simple, safe price, but at the same time, colossal. The ripple of kindness extends into the return of the spiritedness of a once-vibrant Kurt Hummel, the prevention of the loss of a son for Burt Hummel, and a pulse of lightness in the frustrated life of Blaine Anderson. A boy is given a chance to ameliorate himself, to fix for himself what others have broken, and the stranger on the end of the line has only facilitated this by being kind. That little act goes a long way. That little act has changed it all.


	14. epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Two months later._

Kurt sits on the plush, leather couch of his therapist's office looking very little like the boy who first walked into this office. His stature is more relaxed now, not as hunched and guarded, and it's almost unfathomable to think that, several months ago, this boy had experienced a severely traumatic event.

It's amazing what others can do for you if you let them.

"...relapses into anxiety are of course, entirely possible, but you've made such remarkable progress I'm confident that it isn't likely for you. Do you feel like things have gotten back to normal?" asked Tabitha.

Kurt thought about it for a while.

"It isn't so much 'normal' as it is a new equilibrium, I think. It isn't normal, but it's better. Things have changed, but I've found peace with my current state."

Peace also came from the fact that Kurt's father pressed charges and the ex-jocks were now facing jail sentences (albeit rather short ones) on account for assault, being legal adults and all. Yet, Kurt felt no vindictive pleasure from knowing they were behind bars- rather, he truly was at peace with his being and no longer had to live in fear. They wouldn't dare touch him again.

Tabitha takes a couple notes about his composed state, and notes that it isn't the usual drug-induced stupor that most depressive disorder patients are in. His prescription had been cut down considerably and it no longer clouded his head.

"It's also been good that you've had so much support," she notes, and Kurt smiles. She knew all about Blaine, he'd been a topic of many of his appointments. "You reckon you'll be okay heading off to New York after this?"

"I'm okay," Kurt grins at the feeling of utter honesty behind his words.

"I'm okay."

It's a crisp autumn evening when Kurt leaves his therapist's office in downtown Lima. There's a brisk breeze that sweeps through the wide streets of the city district of this little town. Kurt has a bounce in his step as he walks, having had his final appointment with his therapist after over half a year of sessions.

He rounds the corner, away from where his car is parked, that led him to that little bar months ago. It is hard to believe it's only been a short time since, but the effect of one individual on another's life can be monumental. Who knew the Kurt Hummel that once suffered from severe social anxiety and lived in crippling fear could bounce back, finding love (that he won't admit just yet) and well on his way to following his dreams?

In his hand, he grips a letter of acceptance into NYADA's foundation theatre course, mailed to him only this morning with the words "congratulations!" blazing on the envelope. The course was only a year long and wasn't an undergrad course, but it would give him a solid theatre foundation that McKinley couldn't have ever offered him. He supposes they liked the audition tape he sent them, even if it was rather unconventional. Next year, he will still have to fight tooth and nail for an actual position in the school, but he has no doubts that this course will give him the leg up he needs.

He's giddy as he walks through the bar's threshold, his feet taking him to his familiar place near the back of the bar. A voice he has come to love and easily recognize fills his ears, playing slow songs with his deft fingers, bright in the dim light of the stage.

The set finishes and he walks straight up to the performer, without hesitation.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Blaine says, pecking him on the cheek. "how was your last appointment?"

"Great," he beams, feeling Blaine's stubble graze across his cheek. "I'm done- forever, hopefully."

"So proud of you, baby." Kurt's cheeks immediately flush at the new pet name, and he has a feeling that Blaine noticed, if his dopey grin had anything to do with it. He quickly moves on, a little flustered.

"Hey, I have news. This also happened."

Kurt produces the letter of acceptance, the word 'congratulations!' printed over and over on the front of the envelope, unmistakably welcoming him to the nation's most prestigious performing arts academy.

Blaine makes an odd squealing noise he'd never heard before and Kurt gets tightly crushed in his arms, grinning from ear to ear into his boyfriend's (boyfriend's) curls.

"I'm so proud of you!" he says, smiling at him so warmly Kurt might just melt. "Why didn't you call?!"

"I wanted to tell you in person, and maybe get a congratulatory kiss...?"

_*muah.*_

It's one of those sweet, sweet smiling kisses too.

"Congratulations, Kurt. You're going to be fantastic."

"Here's the thing about NYADA, though... it's kind of, well, in New York." Kurt bites his lip as he gauges Blaine's reaction. They'd talked about NYADA, mostly in the abstract and only in the sense of academics, but they'd never considered what it would mean for them if Kurt should leave.

"Yes?"

"What does that mean for us...?"

Blaine slips a hand into Kurt's, raising his knuckles to his lips.

"It means that _we,_" -_kiss-_ "are going to be very happy that _you,_" - kiss- "are going to your dream school."

"_We_ are also going to manage long distance just fine."

Kurt's heart stops at the statement, at the way Blaine sounds so _sure_, without questions, that they were going to stay together.

"You don't know that," Kurt says, worried. Distance changes things, everyone knows that.

"Nope, I do," Blaine replies, moving to circle his hands around Kurt's waist. "Y'know why?"

"Pray tell."

"There are these snazzy things like _skype_ and _phones-_"

"-Blaine, stop joking around, this is serious-"

"Hey, I am serious," he says, looking him straight in the eye. "We of all people should know what a big difference a phone call can make."

Kurt sighs, deep, and pulls Blaine closer to him.

"I'm going to miss you," he mumbles, pressing his cheek into his collarbone. "the distance is going to _suck._"

"It won't change us, I promise."

"There you go, making promises-"

Blaine for the most part ignores Kurt's skepticism. "I promise to always pick up your calls, no matter what I'm doing,"

"Mhm, you better-"

"I promise to keep texting you dumb things,"

"And what dumb things they are, too-"

"I promise to wish you goodnight, everynight,"

"Your phone bill's going to be through the roof-"

"And I promise to never let you forget how much I love you."

Kurt doesn't have a witty quip to that one. It feels like Blaine's kissing him for the first time all over again.

"Have I convinced you yet?" Blaine teases, amused at the adorable, stunned look on Kurt's face. "Do you think we'll be okay?"

Kurt nods, beaming wetly, before finding the gift of speech.

"We'll be just fine. You're only a phone call away, after all."

_end_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** to anyone who still reads this story I extend my utmost gratitude and thanks. I started writing this in 2011, for heaven's sake, and I've been so awful about writing regularly that it's taken me this long to complete it. It was, granted, a bad idea to start projects in the middle of the most tumultuous years of my life thus far, but this story needed to get out of me and get out of me it finally did.

I can't explain how amazed I am that anyone would read this and stick with it, god knows my patience isn't nearly as durable as that. Thank you, thank you, thank you, you are all amazing and I probably wouldn't have been able to get to the end of it had I not had all your lovely support. ALL MY LOVE TO YOU, DEAR READERS!

so I guess that's the end of this particular journey. I've started about 20 others in the duration I've written this- that's how poorly concentrated I am. After this I'll be focusing mostly on rewriting Embers and getting that done and dusted as well. Keep an eye out for it, it's coming... eventually... sigh.

Otherwise, short drabbles and things happen on my tumblr, .com, if any of you are interested.

Once again, thank you for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed it. Much love to you all.

xoxo,

copper oxide


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